Atalantë
by TheDarkLordofDoom
Summary: After the Downfall of Núménor, Eönwë and Arien remember the perpetrator. It appears the Maia of the Sun has a secret she has hidden from even the eyes of The Valar. Sunsmith, or Sauron x Arien
1. Chapter 1: Rúcina

**Atalant** **ë**

* * *

" _Why, Mairon, why?"_

Eönwë, Chief of the Maiar, herald of the Elder King and bringer of hope to all, was lying on his knees, clutching his chest in grief.

All he had worked so hard to create had been utterly destroyed by the one he considered his brother. His little brother.

"Why, Mairon? Why did you not come back to us? Why did you take the path of darkness? Oh, Mairon, why?"

The questions were endless, and the tears began to flow from his normally piercing, set, stern blue eyes. Eönwë sufficed by repeating only the interrogative syllable. The question he wished to ask could not be expressed in words- it stemmed forth from the song of his fëa."

He was lying on the beaches of Valinor's eastern side, the sun-set horizon slowly darkening, the waters of Arda rising up into a great tidal wave, greater than any that had yet risen and any that would rise ere the Dagor Dagorath.

This was a beach oft frequented by Ossë, and therefore was imperfect, being asymmetrical. Yet, the sands changed with the tides, and had long covered any scars gouged by lightning-strikes summoned from the Maia's wrath.

Eönwë forced himself to look at the tsunami that threatened to engulf Valinor. He looked without fear- he might as well drown rather than see this out. He would hate to see this catastrophe out to the end.

He wondered why Eru himself had decided to mete out retribution, and such terrible retribution at that. Why did the entirety of Núménor need to be destroyed, along with its people, so that Mairon would sink with it?

Why did Mairon need to be destroyed so in the first place?

If only Lord Mânawenûz had allowed him to go to Núménor and sort it all out. He was sure his little brother would see sense. There was no need for all of this destruction, as he was sure all it needed was for him to hammer some sense into that Maia's excessively stubborn, thick skull…

The waters rose and hammered against an invisible barrier. Not a drop fell on Eönwë and the beach. The Valar had created a shield of might to guard Valinor against the onslaught. The Pelóri protected the sides, and the shield protected the skies.

Soon, the clear blue of the skies was replaced with the emerald and turquoise hues of Ulmo's sea, the water flowing above Valinor, which was shielded by an invisible barrier.

The vessels of Arien and Tilion, as they soared above, were both blotted out, but Arien's light pierced true through the water, shining in a multitude of hues onto Valinor, the best possible beacon of hope.

And then, suddenly, it was gone. At first, it seemed as if the Valar had let down their ethereal protection, but at the next, the tides had lowered and the waves had subsided. The sky was above them once again, and it was clear- _clearer than it had ever been before._

Eönwë looked up to his beloved sky and frowned- it seemed something was wrong with it. It did not quite seem natural- a bit too perfectly azure. Arien shone down upon him again, and somewhere deep within him, Eönwë knew he would never see the Mortal Lands again.

 _All this after he had travelled to Andor himself and taught the children who would live there the ways of life._

What he had done, Mairon had undone. Rage at the Maia for his actions suddenly flooded his self, but the Herald sighed and shook it down, letting it drown in the tides of grief.

His Maiarin senses tingled at the revelation of a new electromagnetic signature behind him. The song of this particular fëa was gentle and beautiful yet firm. It was very familiar to him.

Lord Manwë, the Elder King, constructed flesh and stepped into the physical world. Without a word, he stooped down and took his child in his arms, his mighty fëa gently cradling the Maia's smaller one.

They remained there, blue and white cloaks fluttering in the wind.

Eönwë wished to speak with her.

It had occurred to him in a spur of sudden obsession, and he had worked very hard to hasten his tasks so that he could visit her.

Lord Mânawenûz had painstakingly explained to him all the involved details, telling him of the damage done, the casualties, the magic involved, the new shape of the world, since the flood had changed it, and its consequences.

However, his lord could not offer him comfort on the subject of Mairon. He suspected no one could. Therefore, he resolved to speak with the only one who had probably truly known the Maia apart from himself.

Taking the form of a Great Eagle, Eönwë shot off into the skies to find her.

It was rather a simple task to find her, as the golden light of the divine fruit of Laurelin that she carried could lead any Ainu on Eä to her.

Eönwë flew directly at her, his Ainurin eyes not hurt in the least by the radiance of the Sun, soaring high above any height possible for a typical Eagle. He channelled the winds of Manwë where there were none, hastening him to his destination.

He found her at last, soaring above the clouds in her golden chariot, the vessel of Laurelin's fruit levitated in front by her power.

He hesitated to approach her. Knowing Arien, she would probably be infuriated at Mairon for doubling her task. She would not accept a share in the load, nay- she was too stubborn and too dedicated to do that.

However, when earlier she could descend to Valinor at Night and live her life, now- she could not. The life she had in Valinor among her peers was henceforth over.

He changed his form to resemble his chosen fána- one of a golden-haired Vanyarin elf- but with a few changes, such a sturdier frame to withstand the pressures of the lack of air, and white wings to stay level.

Arien expertly changed course by a single degree with her chariot, and then she saw him.

"Urušigas, how might you be?" he asked jovially, but she drove the chariot away from him so that he could not leap onto it.

"Don't you dare call me that" Arien snapped.

"Oh" said Eönwë. "Right. Still haven't gotten over Cosmoco, have you? I hear from Lord Námo that your brother is displaying particularly exemplary conduct in Mandos, due to which he has had to be isolated from other inmates. His dulcet tones can be heard all the way from Ilmarin…"

Arien wanted to be angry at him. She wanted to be sad, when reminded of her brother. _But how could she? One did not simply be angered by E_ _ö_ _nw_ _ë_ _._

"Oh, shut up, you." she said mock-sternly. Eönwë clucked his tongue and shook his head, prompting Arien to give up and simply throw herself into his awaiting arms.

"How good it is to finally see you, Fiônno! Now, I am indeed very put out with you, you heartless Maia, you did not think to visit!" she said, finally pulling away. She had forgotten that her friend had a truly _very_ strong embrace.

"Oh, I _am_ sorry- I do hope it is not getting too lonely up here. If only you had not been so incredibly thick when it came to choosing from your horde of suitors…"

Arien suddenly looked away. It was meant to be a jest, but it had aroused some very poignant memories.

"Arien?" said Eönwë, walking ahead to face her.

"No- well, yes- you are right, Fiô. However, somehow I had always known I would have to walk a different path. I did not wish to bind myself to someone and then just- leave, letting him be alone."

"Arien. I know you, and despite your stubborn, impassionate tendencies, I know there are few maiar who are as kind and as capable of love as you. No matter who you took as spouse, he would never feel your absence- you leave a part of you with whoever makes your favourable acquaintance. That is what makes you wonderful." he said quietly.

Arien looked up at him, and he realized he had forgotten just how intense her stare was.

"Thank you, Fiô- but I am aware that oft it is not enough. Look what happened."

This was not going well. She had already brought up Mairon. While it was better than her refusing to speak of him, Eönwë had wished to be the one to bring him up, and that too later on. He hastily changed the subject.

"I am sorry, Arien. I do hope this is not getting intolerable. The entire day, for an eternity- it must be very difficult. Now, I would have you know that there are many who would willingly step in for one part of the day, and there would be no regrets on our side if…"

"You already know suggesting that is a waste of time, so I request you to refrain from doing so." Arien said proudly.

"Have it your way, then…"

"However, if you forget to visit me, then I might just forget to shine upon Valinor for quite some time."

"Oh, Eru- why am I stuck with all the fiery ones?" Eönwë moaned. It was quite true.

"Well, I am afraid that is your…" -she remembered exactly who the other 'fiery one' he was referring to was- "…doom." She finished quietly.

Eönwë once again sensed a change in her manner. Perhaps it was the way the air heated up around her flaming form. Perhaps it was the subtle difference in her firm speech. He walked a step forward and slowly, gently wrapped his arm around her.

It had been she who discovered it. They had both been inconsolable for a while, and although Eönwë had recovered due to the constant support of his lord, and never lost hope for Rušur's return- the same could not be said for Arien.

He remembered how Tilion had come to console her, and how she had accidentally burnt his fána in an unthinking moment of outburst to an extent that he had had to construct a new one.

He did not blame her- Rušur was an extremely close friend, and for him to leave- it had been perhaps one of the most heart-rending episodes he had undergone.

Arien looked at him, and then turned the opposite direction, resolutely hiding her face, but he turned her around sharply, uncaring of the consequences, and held her fiery gaze with his eye.

He was one of the three maiar who could withstand her gaze- Mairon and Ilmarë were the others. They stood in silence for a few moments.

"Atar curse him, Fiô! Atar curse Dušamânûdhâz! First and mightiest of the Ainur, indeed! Oft the thought has come to me whether He erred in His judgment!" said Arien at last. Eönwë was shocked- he had expected her to be angry, but at Mairon- not at Atar. How could Atar ever have made a mistake? (Though it often occurred to him why Atar let the Eldar suffer, why he let Morgoth hold sway over Middle-earth, why Rušur was taken away…)

"Say not such words, Uru. Atar is never wrong- and this is all part of the Grand Design He has for Arda. You know how He chose not to intervene, to not destroy Arda with His Might…"

"And He chooses now as a good moment to do so. Why not strike at Morgoth in the first place, if He is so eager to destroy our Mae by such means…"

"It is no use to argue, Uru, and you know it. We know not what Atar has in mind. That blessing, I believe, only Lord Mânawenûz possesses. It is what was meant to be."

"Even if it was- Atar gave us free will. And that allows me to hate this 'Grand Design', if I will." said she, sullenly.

"My, my, Uru, Atar has surely heard you. I daresay he will not be pleased."

"I think He minds little, if He took away His own offspring, and that too the most beautiful one of all He…" she suddenly covered her mouth with a hand, not uttering the remnant.

"What is it, Arien?"

"Ah, a- uh- a slip of the tongue. It is as nothing, and you would do well to forget it."

"Arien, I know you well. It is not 'nothing'. What is it? Is it something not for my ears? I promise you, you can trust me with…"

"I told you, it is as nothing! It would be wise not to push it further, _Fiônnowenûz."_

The Herald of Manwë, however, was wily and clever. There are many ways one could use to appear to engage in natural conversation, and steer it clear of the obvious well enough that the other participant in the conversation simply divulges all the information one is wishing to gain- without even realising it.

"Tell me one thing, Arien- are you not angry in the least at 'Mæȝæyárron' _,_ as he liked to call himself, for what he has done?

"How could I be angry at him? How could I?" she challenged immediately, and regretted saying so at once. Eönwë knew her very well, and he knew that she tended to be angry at any who would forsake reason for pettiness without any seemingly rational logic. It was not so for a certain Maia, it seemed.

Eönwë naturally moved to assure her that he had not taken any lost ground.

"Of course, of course- however, even I have held some measure of bitterness over the debacle. Naturally, owing to your… tendencies…"- he began, prompting a raised eyebrow from Arien-

"I had imagined you would be more than a little angry with him. Ah, curse me, I seem to have lost those days in the depths of my memory. Steeped in troubles I must resolve and weary as I am, I have lost some remembrance of him- of that magic of the old days. That is why I came to talk to you- I needed to talk to someone about the old days."

"The Old Days? I cannot deny that the time of Arda's creation was… interesting. And tumultuous. Surely you remember that?" said Arien, tilting her head to the side.

"Sadly, dear Uru- I seem to have forgotten his friendship. In those days, Dušamânûdhâz- or Morgoth as he is called- used to take what he wished, therefore the bonds that bound us to each other were very great- that I have not forgotten, as have I missed it. Perhaps the terror was worth it in the end…" he breathed a nostalgic sigh, which was genuine, and continued his ploy.

"I have not completely forgotten how those days were like, though- I still remember how we were- you, me and Mae- the 'Three Aces of the Ayanumûz.'"

Arien cracked a small smile, recalling a particularly fond memory. It was working.

"I seem to remember that the Lady Varda deigned to call us 'The Three Asses'". And Eönwë had fallen helplessly upon her.

"Ah, the old days!" he said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye- it was good to have remembered.

"We made rather a nice company, did we not- Fiônnowenûz the Warrior, Urušigas the Radiant, and Rušuranaškâd- or 'Mæȝæyárron'- the Smith. Indeed, one would be hard-pressed to find a fellowship this _perfect-_ The first, the greatest armsman on Arda- always protecting the others." She said.

"The second, of fiery gaze and mighty in songs of power- always destroying enemies with radiant might" quipped Eönwë, somewhat sycophantically, prompting a light smack on the cheek.

"And the third…" began Arien, finding suddenly that she could not speak.

"Inventor, creator of new marvels, and preserver of all beauty we wrought." finished Eönwë firmly. "Alas that he no longer remains so."

Arien gave a very small, slow nod, and turned her beautiful face to the ground. Eönwë saw his chance.

"Did you see him, Uru? Have you seen Mae, and what he has wrought in the past age?"

A little tear came down from Arien's eye, and Eönwë knew that he had struck firm and at the perfect moment.

"Oh, Fiô- he remains our Mae no longer. Morgoth be damned!"

"What did you see, Arien?" Eönwë asked, somewhat more firmly than he intended.

"He- he has- he has taken up a land far to the east as his abode. 'Mordor', it is called- Dark Land- and there is no better adjective. It is the farthest possible land from here, and I hate to think of what Morgoth did to him to make him… go… so far away from his rightful home.

Barren and volcanic, a tortured land- I saw little of him. The last I saw him, he was erecting some- something…"

"Arien?"

"Fiô, it- you know not the feeling. When a smith, for instance, who once had an eye for the creation of only the most beautiful things, s-sinks so low as to erect something so _dark and sharp-edged and utterly- utterly_ _ **hideous**_ as that-"

"Hideous? Our Mae, hideous? That is the last adjective one could…"

"And yet it is the most apt for his construction. Here I was, thinking he could not sink himself lower… and then he decides he's had enough darkening himself and moves to the sky. He stops hurting himself and decides to hurt me. With some black sorcery, he created dark clouds to cover the entirety of his land- he was always very skilled with spell-craft, but this… this tore my heart asunder."

"Oh, Eru, how dare he!" roared Eönwë, incensed. There was only one thing capable of reducing Arien to tears, and only one being capable of it to truly break her heart. And he had done it.

"Perhaps he could not withstand my gaze… But he was one of the only who could! He could even withstand my touch! And then he was taken away, curse Morgoth!" she said, shaking her head.

Eönwë truly felt bad. Arien, despite her status as Lady Vána's chief maia, had always felt sad and… awkward, as if there was something the matter with her that she couldn't rectify. She was truly lovely in every aspect, except for certain tendencies to temper, yet none among the Maiar could bear her touch.

And then there was this other Maia she had met, courtesy of him, who was equally awkward and unsociable. He had taken her hand without so much as a wince, and had simply pronounced it 'warm, comforting to the touch'.

Mairon was the one who taught Arien to stem the flow of power into her fána to not scorch others, and the only Maia who could bear her true fiery touch (save Eönwë, who did so with a lot of practice). And the same Mairon had been taken away and changed so much that he went so far as to hide himself from her searching gaze.

Eönwë gently embraced her, as Manwë had embraced him many a time. She did not push him away, as she most often did.

"Ah, Uru. I believe he is simply scared of your gaze. Dark Lord he may be, but the Mairon I knew would never seek to hide himself from you."

"Then the Mairon you knew lives no longer! I saw him later- after that fool Ar-Pharazôn the 'Golden' came with his army to subjugate him. He bent his knee willingly. I saw him sailing away from Mordor on a ship- the fána he wore was truly beautiful, yet not… him. It was too beautiful. It was pretentious, and presumptuous and wholly overdone- so uncharacteristic of him."

Eönwë did not ask about the Annatar episode, knowing she would not like to speak of it. He knew she had believed him capable of redemption, and craving it- it had been a nasty shock to learn of his deception.

"What happened in Andor?"

"Ar-Pharazôn… liked him. He came to value his advice, and grudgingly… admired him. He would never admit it, but I saw it in his eyes every time I passed over the isle. As for what I saw in Mairon's eye- there was an evil glint, a smile curved like a dagger. It revolted me to think of. His words flowed beautifully like poisonous honey. I had wished to find him half as evil as the Eldar said he was- sadly, I was proved wrong."

"Is he beyond redemption, then?"

"If he had any hope for redemption, he would know that I would be the first to demand it for him! He knew me well enough to accept that! I thought I could finally keep an eye on him, but no- he employed his foul sorcery again! He gained enough influence to construct this… temple… of Morgoth, and warded it with his own magic, darkening it to my eye. Every day, a man or woman would be led to this temple- and never come out again.

Mairon himself never came out, save to give 'advice' to the traitorous king, conducting worship of that damned fiend he calls master by sacrificing innocent men, women… even children."

"Yet you do not blame him?"

"Nay, how can I? How can I… I know he would never willingly worship Morgoth- it is but an excuse to hide from us, I fear- but that dark glint in his eye…"

"Morgoth he hated, as he told me- and I could detect no lie in his words. His repentance, when he came to me, seemed true and not some deception. For what reason I cannot comprehend, he… left… us as soon as I mentioned the inevitable trial, and that only the Valar could give him pardon. Oh, I should have been less cold- he seemed so frightened, barely keeping it under forced calm. Such strength I have never seen- but neither have I yet beheld such fear."

Arien slowly shook her head.

"What I must say now, I am incapable of saying, Fiô. The hand of fate chokes my throat- but I must say it. You blame yourself wrongly. You had and could have done nothing to bring him back- as I was the reason he fell. This is all my fault."

"Nay, Uru, nay! Speak not thus! You were the one to find his treachery, not the one to have caused his fall! You were most probably the one he cared most about."

"Do you understand naught of this?! I was the one he may have cared about most, but I cared not about him! I could have stopped his fall! I did not! I found out he had erred, and what did I do? What did I do, when I should have run after him, comforted him, and told him how much we cared about him? I stormed 'good riddance' in a cursed rage, and let him go! I made him feel as if he was not loved, and this was the one and only thing which could have kept him back there!"

" **Stay yourself, Urušigas. This is no fault of yours and never was. The blame of Rušurânaškâd's fall lies on three hands- The hand of Dušamânûdhâz, the hand of his old master Aȝûlêz, and the hand of Rušurânaškâd himself."**

Neither Eönwë nor Arien had sensed the new, powerful electromagnetic signature. It had extremely tight wavelengths, and a slow, gentle velocity. It was well-hidden.

"Hail, Lord Náromôz!" said the two Maiar, and knelt- Arien somewhat awakwardly, as this was a rare gesture which Vána, her mistress, never demanded of her.

" **Rise, my children. The Light of Vîyarêz's fëa shines heavily upon you today, and her tapestry features you two in prominence-hence my presence. I sense hidden truths and veiled thoughts- and Atar wills it that this be the last day of guilt and grief for you. Both of you have hidden thoughts you have carried for an age, as if leaden weights in shining fëar. I will have you dispose of these weights."**

"D-dispose of the weight of conscience? I- I am afraid I understand it not." said Eönwë, rather confused.

Námo's eyes, usually black as the void, lit up with a white, twinkling light at this response.

" **My meaning, little Fiônnowenûz, is that this is the last day you carry guilt. I am here to utter truth and declare Atar's design before you- so that you may rest assured about your friend. Now, is there anything you would wish to tell me?"**

Eönwë's expression clouded over, and he bit his lip. It would be futile to attempt to hide anything from the Lord of Mandos- it would be better to get it over with. Besides, he loved his friend, and Lord Námo was perhaps the only one capable of convincing Arien to release her notions of guilt. Therefore, he would do well to be out with his little tale.

"When I found Mairon first- his first reaction was to tell me to go away. I refused- he seemed surprised, as others would only be too glad to grant his request. Since then, I stuck by him, refusing to leave, and eventually he stopped holding me in naught but contempt, and a friendship evolved. He became akin to a little brother, as Ilmarë is my sister.

When I found him, chased by Oromë's hounds, begging me for pardon- I was cold. Cold as the wind on that dark day. I did not comfort him- I told him, somewhat harshly, that the only ones capable of granting him pardon were my lords, the Valar. He ran."

" **What you did was correct. None can grant him pardon but my brethren- that is doom."**

"Alas that I should phrase it such, then. I should have whispered meaningless reassurances, contrived to bring him back to Valinor, or simply embraced him as the brother he was to me… neither course did I follow. That is my part in this."

" **Fiônnowenûz- your part has been recorded. It is in no way, however, a part of the Doom of Mairon. His fall is no fault of yours. And let me tell you, beloved son- you were warm and kind, yet upright as a great Herald should be. It was the actions he subsequently took which led you to twist your part in your mind to the Cold jailer- which would perhaps be a more apt description of me- than the comforting friend."**

Eönwë instantly felt better. He hadn't been part of Mairon's doom after all! He gave a small chuckle at Námo's little jab at his own self. Looking into the Vala's so-called cold eyes and seeing nothing but love and no blame shattered his guilt to pieces. He felt- lighter, somehow.

Arien, however, was resolutely staring at Lord Námo's chest, refusing to make eye contact. He nudged her gently, knowing of the care and aaffection to be found in those eyes, which were not fathomless depths and twinkled like stars.

"Say it, Arien. Lord Námo will help you.

"How can I say it, Fiô? How can I tell him that this would not have happened if not for my foolishness?"

"It will help you, Uru. Though you do not show it, I know you carry guilt with you.

"Have you not heard aught of what I have said? I cannot-"

" **Urušigas, Maia of Váyanaz, carrier of Tulukhadâhan's fruit, what thou shalt now utter will bring change to Arda's doom. 'Tis by Atar's will that I pronounce it thus. Yet free will is a gift Atar hath bestowed upon ye all, and therefore thou art placed in a matter of choice."** said Námo, the twinkle in his eyes dying out for a moment, as he changed his dialect to ancient Valarin. The Doomsman had thus uttered his doom.

Arien, though she was offered 'choice', did not think herself to be in possession of any. If doom it was, then she would rather it be one with a favourable end. She knew something of the paths Námo's dooms tended to take- and with a last, uncharacteristic sigh, uttered a secret she had hidden deep within her fëa for ever since a fateful day on Almaren.

"Mairon and I- we were friends, the best of friends, as you undoubtedly know. Never had I imagined a possibly of it growing further than that. However, I loved him not as a brother, as you did- I wished to bond my fëa with his, in the manner of a husband and wife.

A marital relationship with either of you I had long considered- I had, however, a premonition that I was destined for some greater fate, one that would play a crucial role in Arda's survival, and therefore held off."

" **The vision you speak of- that was my doing."** said Námo, with a sad smile. **"I am sorry, dear child- I am sorry for perhaps erasing a prospect of joy from your life- but it is… doom. And I know better than any that what is doom is doom, and must occur for it is part of Atar's grand design."**

Eönwë was extremely shocked. He had lost control of his fána, and his jaw had dropped below a level possible for any Eruhîn. He hastily re-constructed some bones and muscles in the right places to correct it.

He had known that Arien had once considered a marital bond with him, but had held off until a Herald's duties and a great destiny had grounded these hopes forever.

Mairon she had rather considered a very dear friend, one whose company was to be cherished but never loved in the way of a spouse. Arien tended to be extremely frank, and perhaps overly so. She had even once said so, on Almaren, declaring her intent of a possible nuptial bond with Eönwë.

Mairon had seemingly taken it very well at the time. He had laughed it off, pretending to be sad, and then treated it as if he expected nothing different and hoped for nothing else… but hadn't that been about the time when he started running off on his own?

There had been a time when he would start appearing less and less often, always coming back somewhat grimmer and more hardened. He had always been rather grim and hardened, but he spoke progressively less, and came to see Eönwë less often. He even disappeared for long periods of time. Only when his treachery concerning the lamps was discovered did Eönwë understand a reason behind it all.

"Do you remember the time I said I was likely to take you for a spouse, Fiô? Do you remember how he had laughed? Perhaps he had taken it harder than I thought he did. Oh, foolish me- I was such an insufferable ball of fire at the time! Of course, I loved both of you, and…"

"Did you truly love me, Uru?" asked Eönwë unexpectedly, expression pleading for an answer.

"Well, yes I… I did, but not that… not now… well, yes indeed, I have always loved you, but not as…"

" **The truth, and the truth only, best beloved. Remember- it is doom."**

Arien closed er eyes, lowered her face, and said in a heavy voice- "Fine, then."

"Uru?"

"I am sorry, Fiô- I always loved you, but I was never quite besotted. I loved both of you, and would have perhaps preferred you simply because of your gentle nature and prowess in battle but- in a marriage, both partners need each other. That need- it was never there, sadly. Therefore, my love for you is the love of the dearest friend I have ever had."

Eönwë wished to feel somewhat sad- but in truth, he was relieved. To know that Arien had loved him would press new guilt and responsibility on his shoulders- just when he had gotten rid of his previous guilt.

"And Mairon?"

"Mairon… I was a fool to not know it. Perhaps because he was always there, I felt a warmth in my heart I took for granted. When he was gone, I felt… cold. I seemed incomplete. I remembered his fires, his beautiful fires- so perfectly controlled, so soothing against my being. I felt complete around him, though I did not notice it. After he was gone, I found myself wishing to have a bit of his fire- ah, to think of the melody we could have created together."

"One a white flame of radiant light and the other an amber flame of the deepest bowels of the Earth. I must admit, and it never occurred to me before- he would have suited you."

"Precisely, Fiô. It took me too long to realise this, and now… he… he is gone. Forever. Gone forever. All because of me."

Arien looked down, and tears of somewhat-dulled blue flame left her eyes, contrasting against her being of white fire. It looked as if she could no longer sustain her fána.

Lord Námo swept forward and cupped her chin with his hand, compelling her to look at his eyes. Where his black orbs once twinkled, they now shone with a bright, eternal flame- the Flame Imperishable.

" **Thus you have spoken, Urušigas- and it has been recorded. It is true that you have a part in the Doom of Mairon- but whatever darkness has come of it- it is his, and his alone. For a matter of misunderstanding, though, you will be recompensed in kind. I cannot see what the errant Maia will come to- but know that it will no longer be in evil that he ends."**

"N-no longer be in evil?" she said, finally daring to hope.

" **Aye. His doom changes and I pronounce it changed- however long and painful it may be, Mairon Aulendil, now Sauron Gorthaur, walks the path of redemption. And you, best beloved- will be the one to bring him back to the light."**

And Arien was glad.

* * *

 **GLOSSARY**

 **M** **ânawenûz \- Manwë. It means 'Blessed One'.**

 **Fiônnowenûz \- Eönwë (This name is not strictly canonical. It was my attempt to turn Eönwë's previous name, Fionwë, to Valarin. Means 'Herald of the Wind')**

 **Urušigas \- Arien. Means fiery heat. The closest name in Valarin from canonical words that I could construct for her.**

 **Dušamânûdhâz \- Morgoth. A constructed name from known words, mening 'Dark Destroyer'.**

 **Aȝûlêz \- Aulë. Means 'Inventor'.**

 **Ayanumûz \- Ainur (plural). **

**Váyanaz- Vána (This name is not canonical. My attempt to 'Valarize' Vána)**

 **Tulukhadâhan \- Laurelin**

 **Náromôz \- Námo (Non-canonical, my creation)**

 **Vîyarêz \- Vairë (My creation)**

 **Rušurânaškâd \- Mairon/Sauron. Found in the Annals of Aman, it means 'Ring of Fire'.**

 **Mæȝæyárrôn \- Mairon/Sauron. Means 'Admirable One' (Non-canonical. I made it up when I was displeased with 'Ring of Fire'. Note how it is unique in that it lacks the –oz, -uz or –ez ending of the normal Valarin names)**

* * *

 **Author's Note : There. I did the unthinkable. I wrote a (somewhat) fluffy story. Excuse me while I throw myself off the proverbial battlements.**

 **Normally, I have no trouble fending off plot bunnies when they scamper into my mind, but this one- this was no mere plot bunny.**

 **It was more like a Balrog, to be fair. It latched on with fire and heat and refused to let me remain in a state of calm until I obliged it.**

 **(No) Thanks to Sauron Gorthaur for feeding the Balrog's fires and for inspiring its birth in the first place- Kindly stop being so inspiring, you!**

 **Why this pairing? Simply because I have never seen it before. I learnt the meaning of the words 'ship' and 'OTP' and even used them in a sentence (oh horror) in reference to these two since they just fit so** _ **perfectly**_ **together. One cannot deny- their fire, their power being beyond the level of the average Maia, one a manifestation of light and the other darker- it seems they perfectly complement each other.**

 **A Very Merry Yule to all the readers.**


	2. Chapter 2: Envinyanta

**Atalant** **ë**

 **Chapter 2: Envinyanta**

* * *

It was over.

He was over.

 _Not over- finished. He was finished._

Melkor damn it, what did proper articulation mean to him now? He was over and he was finished. _Nothing meant anything to him now._

Curse those hobbits. Curse that Olórin. Curse those elves. Curse that Heir of Isildur and all his race. Curse the dwarves. Curse the Valar! _Curse the ring! Curse his stupidity! Curse himself! CURSE ALL THE CHILDREN OF IL_ _Ú_ _VATAR!_ _ **CURSE IL**_ _ **Ú**_ _ **VATAR HIMSELF FOR THINKING TO HAVE CHILDREN!**_ _ **THRICE-CURSED BE IL**_ _ **Ú**_ _ **VATAR FOR EVER BRINGING HIM INTO EXISTENCE!**_

He cursed all aspects of Ilúvatar's thought save two. He did not curse Arda, and he did not curse the Maiar- _not all maiar._

He did not curse Arda, for he loved every rock and pebble of it with a fiery, passionate love and always had. It was why he had descended into Eä from the timeless halls despite his disinclination, for he hated Chaos and knew that Arda was a manifestation of Chaos.

He did not curse all maiar, for he remembered two. Two who he loved. Once, he had had a fëa almost as radiant as theirs…

* * *

 _The train of thought moved to his f_ _ë_ _a._

His fëa could no longer be called a fëa. It was pure _shadow._

He recalled them- the shadows. Ever they were the closest of his friends and the most dedicated of his demons and pursuers. They were treacherous, for discord was in their nature. They were half-formed thoughts of Ilúvatar- thoughts that could be twisted to form a corrupted imitation of reality.

Often, these shadows were 'maiar'- little 'maiar', or children of Atar, who answered to Melkor.

Some shadows were formed from Melkor's thoughts, as nigh-palpable manifestations of the Dark power he had squandered.

* * *

 _The train of thought moved to Atar._

He recalled their origins in Ilúvatar- he knew his Atar to be not quite as benign as others who worshipped Him believed Him to be.

Atar was everything- Light and Darkness both. The Lord of Light was the holy figure upon the eternal throne in the timeless halls. The Darkness- it was _everywhere._

Ilúvatar contained the entirety of Eä within His being, and the Valar knew this. The Ainur were housed within Him- they were not separate, as they were parts of His thought. Eä as well found its place within Him- so did the Timeless halls. And there was Darkness within Him as well. As a consequence, Darkness was within Eä.

Sauron remembered how everyone he had ever known appealed to their Atar. Those pathetic Valar, for instance, including his _humble and emotional and utterly contemptible_ old master Aulë in especial, all prayed to their Atar and were thus rewarded.

He remember how Melkor sought direction from the Dark Side of his Atar, and how he was rewarded in turn. He remembered how, with Dark-Atar's advice, Melkor was able to wreak such ruin. And then, he remembered how Melkor had begun to think himself greater, and how he had started ignoring the voices of his Atar- light and dark both. And then the doom came to him.

He started losing his power. The shadows no longer availed him. It was, well and truly, a pathetic spectacle.

Sauron should have been wiser- he should have sought guidance from his Atar. He should have rekindled the bond. Instead, he was foolish.

He was indeed the only being to completely shun Ilúvatar- light and dark both. It was probably why he was made to endure more pain than any on Arda had or would ever endure.

He recalled how he had been afraid of his Atar. He had been afraid of both the light and the dark. He had tried to distance himself. That had resulted in the downfall of Núménor by Atar's hand.

He hated Atar for all that Atar had done to him. _Two interventions! Had Atar deigned to service Melkor with such tender rebuttals? Nay, none!_ He had then recalled how _nothing ever seemed to work for him-_ how Melkor had taken notice of him rather than others, such as Eönwë.

* * *

 _The train of thought moved to E_ _ö_ _nw_ _ë_ _._

Eönwë the maia. Eönwë the parrot of Manwë, as he had called him in the fashion of what the Atani would call 'teasing'. He remembered the light smacks on the fire-browned cheeks of his fána.

No, his fána was pale, ever had been- unlike those of other maiar of Aulë. He wondered why. He wondered why his fingers never became calloused despite the hard work in the forge- something must have happened…

 _Melkor damn it thrice and send it to Ud_ _û_ _n!  
_

Sauron feared that he was losing his memory. He had lost part of his mind, most definitely, along with most of his fëa- but he had retained all his memories. All of them from before the Third Age, that was.

He had wished that they be taken from him too, thinking their retention by his mind a cruel jest from Atar- but now he wished them back.

It was a feeling, a feeling that he couldn't quite put. If he was doomed to drift around as a meaningless, pathetic scrap of life for eternity, he'd rather relive his life. He'd rather have his memories so that he could look upon them. _He needed something to do._

Mairon of earlier days always needed something to keep him busy- Sauron was no different.

He recalled how he always ended up doing half of Eönwë's work for him so that the maia could pursue one of his favourite joys- flight in the form of an eagle. He recalled how he'd organise his desk, only to find that Eönwë would come and mess it up again.

He remembered calling him 'featherbrain', and threatening to tell Manwë that he did all his work for him whenever the Herald felt mischievous. He remembered exactly how much mischief the supposedly 'stern, thoughtful, upright Herald of Manwë' could get up to- the day he had woken up to find his forge painted completely pink and all his tools messed up from the order of importance he had set them up in was the worst.

 _He remembered her laughter, so melodious, so beautiful, such a privilege to hear._

He remembered his third companion.

* * *

 _The train of thought tried to move to Arien. He refused it._

He would not think about her. Not now.

 _It would be detrimental._

 _For the fourth time, Melkor damn it, detriment had no meaning to him now! While he was still at it, he might as well examine it!_

He let images of her flood his mind. It was like opening a floodgate- one leak and a torrent poured forth.

He remembered how he had first met her- she was… _shy._

On second thought, shy would be the last word he would use to describe her, but he could not deny that when he had met her first, she was shy.

She had seemed uncomfortable- uncomfortable to talk to another. He remembered how her eyes- her lovely, golden, burning eyes- _Damnhimforeternitywhywashethinkingaboutthatallofasudden-_ her _eyes-_ he shouldn't use adjectives, for it meant nothing to him now _-_ kept looking to her hand and then his.

For the first time, he had helped without prompting. He had gotten the meaning, and taken her hand. _It was warm, comforting to the touch, and he said so._

She seemed quite shocked. In her lovel- _darnhim-_ in her _noadjectiveneeded_ voice she had explained how no one could touch her- not even maiar whose affinity was fire. Eönwë could do so- with a lot of practice- and that was it.

She remembered her crackling wit. He remembered her unyielding determination. He remembered her refreshing frankness. _Her refreshing frankness._

He remembered how he - _no not he, Mairon! -_ had done what he had never expected and fallen in love with her. And then she had gone and said that she wished Eönwë. Finally, she had revealed her true colours by choosing no one and becoming a lone symbol in the sky.

It was not desire- of sorts- he had never felt any of that _disgustingcontemptibleutterlyuseless_ emotion- he remembered her fëa. How beautiful it was. How completely perfect. It stood for renewal.

He recalled her white-hot flames, and how he- _no, not he! Mairon, Mairon! -_ was envious of them. Mairon could never have hoped to reach her splendour. He, in his foolishness, had thought he could perhaps have a bit of her for himself. Such a pity- that he would wish appeal to such a cold-hearted one. He wished a bond- but he had never told her.

If he had said so, it would have resulted in what these mortals would call 'heartbreak'. Interesting term, that- not that he had a heart to break now.

He wondered what would have happened had he told her and not let it all remain unrequited. Of course, it would be met with refusal.

He wondered if anything would have gone differently. He would have still gone to Melkor, and perhaps been a more pathetic servant than he already was (or so he thought). However, _perhaps…_

* * *

 _He never got to answer that thought._

A whoosh and a whir, and he was flying away.

It was unlike Manwë to send such a wind for him. The wind must have been targeted for him, he knew that- it would otherwise not have carried his shadows so precisely away- perhaps this was it.

Perhaps he was being taken to Valinor, where he would face trial. He would be thrown into the Void.

 _Had he not been broken enough? Did they really need to make a further example of him?_

He did not feel fear- he knew not if he was capable of feeling fear.

He was being carried higher and higher, he realised. Not that he could see- he had merely detected a change in the angle of elevation from the assumedly level ground he had been drifting over.

Higher and higher he was taken. He sensed light- a lot of light. It would have hurt him- _had he cared._

It was his final strategy. Complete and utter ignorance of pain. He had not thought it would serve him, for he did not believe himself to possess such strength of will- but he had not needed it.

It turned out that once one was broken quite so horribly as he was, one could simply cast the sense of pain out of one's fëa.

The Third Age had probably been an entirety of torment for him- _but he simply chose not to feel pain._ He would have otherwise ripped himself apart.

 _Such control, such order—no other maia had that talent._

He sensed the light enveloping him. _Odd._ If some warrior-maia of Manwë, Oromë or Tulkas had been sent after him, they would have left him as untouched as possible- pathetic as they were, they would never 'defile themselves' with his shadow.

And then it began.

 _Pain._

It could not be described as such- he could not feel pain anymore. It was not pain, then- it was… _hurt._

He felt his emotions stirring. Odd that he'd have any at this point- what had they ever brought him but ruin- but they were turbulent. _Turbulent with memory._

Finally, the vector of the angle of elevation to the assumed flat ground stayed constant. He assumed that they had stopped.

He sent forth little tendrils of shadow to 'feel' the platform he was sure he was on, and to fathom its dimensions. A flat bottom, straight then curved sides, and some little peculiarities- perhaps designs- on all surfaces.

 _Chariot._ This fit with the typical image of _Chariot_ that he remembered.

And then, like a barrier falling, he felt it.

Intense light and heat in front of him. It would surely pull apart his shadows and reduce even this bit of his fëa to little splinters, as the rest had been.

 _So be it. He would be annihilated, but he would not cry out. He chose to feel no pain._

He then found that there was an equally intense source of heat and light behind him. For a moment, he suspected that he would be crushed between them like a piece of metal between a hammer and anvil.

And then, the latter source enveloped his fëa, in the manner of an- _embrace._

The feeling was difficult to recognise. It was rare- rare indeed. He could not recall when it was last done to him, or if it was done to him at all. He had seen others embracing others, and that is how he had recognised the action. He was being enveloped, but the enveloping force sought not to destroy.

He felt _warmth-_ it appeared as if the fiery being was attempting to hold him in a protective manner. _Protective. How utterly foolish, protecting that which was broken beyond repair._

He felt the need to tell the fiery being how the warmth was not helping, and how despite it being once his element, it had now become an object of _fearhatredrevulsion_ for him, but he could not find the means to communicate.

* * *

Unbeknownst to him, Arien sighed as she never usually did, and took corporeal form.

Thank Námo, she thought, as the Vala had taught her to do what she would do next.

Gently, with the utmost care and delicacy, she let her mind seek out the shadows of the dark being she had brought with her, and let her fëa probe the darkness that could be called the fëa of the other being.

The shadows _writhed for a while-_ they tried to break free of the dark whole they were part of, but due to her gentleness, could not muster enough strength from pain to do so.

" _Mairon?"_ she asked silently.

 _No answer._

She decided to wait for a while, and veered the chariot around, but did not break the connection.

" _ **The Ainu thou dost speak of is long dead. He hath suffered destruction in the worst manner possible upon E**_ _ **ä**_ _ **. Speak not his name."**_ said a ghastly, abyssal voice in her mind. It was barely there- yet it was, uttering words she hated to hear.

She felt like relinquishing control and allowing the tears freedom to flow, but it would not do to show weakness in front of him- not now. And Arien was nothing if not resolute.

" _Mairon."_

" _ **The Ainu thou dost speak of is dead! 'Tis firm that he is gone!"**_

She felt like saying Ainur cannot die, but this was probably a fate worse than death.

" _I had thought not that it would be this name you wish- but I call to you, Sauron. You cannot choose but answer."_

" _ **Sauron- that would be me. Yea. Mairon did hate that name - but 'tis is only fitting. 'Tis verity."**_

" _You cannot choose but answer!"_ she said firmly, injecting into it some of her fiery wrath.

" _ **I? I am beyond choice. I am beyond all that doth exist upon Arda. I am nothing."**_

" _You are not."_

" _ **Thou dost deny the…"**_

" _You are not because I say you are not! And by the end of this, I will ensure that you are not! And do not speak in ancient Valarin, Mairon, for you do not need to…"_

" _ **Thou dost call for Mairon. The Ainu thou dost seek is gone! He hath vanished! In the fashion of the Atani, he is dead!"**_

" _Mairon." she said._

No answer.

This third 'Mairon' was of a different tone. It was firm and irrevocable.

" _It was not my will, but you forced it upon yourself."_ she said, before revealing the full might and splendour of her fëa. She felt the shadows recede, and try to split apart, but did not.

Sauron did not know why his shadows did not simply dissipate- but Arien did. She had learnt it from Námo. Apparently, if one had a strong emotional motive, one could forge a net out of the very fabric of one's thought and bind another within it. This she had taken the liberty of doing, for Mairon's own good.

Sauron tried to hold back the pain behind the wall of darkness that he had forged- but Arien knew better.

Had she tried to cast aside these barriers, had she attempted to attack them and blow them away, it would not have worked. Námo had told her so. Instead, she reached forth, carefully- almost timidly- with a little spark of her fëa.

" _I know you want healing. Take it. Touch me."_

Sauron was forced into a dilemma. Should he retain his pride? Should he retain his darkness? Obviously he should, but…

Should he remain a meaningless scrap of life of no worth to anyone?

 _Melkor damn it for the fifth time, he would do it. And he would be annihilated in the process. At least he would be given relief._

He reached forth with a shadow, and he took the spark within his own being.

He had been deceived.

 _Pain._

His barriers were knocked down, and he had to feel pain. It was the deepest pain of the fëa. He wished to wail and scream in agony- he could not.

Deep within herself, Arien silently cried, but she did not show it. Alas that the one she cared for so much had to be subjected to such pain, but it was a necessary step for him to heal.

" _ **Atar, if thou didst bear any love for the one thou didst consider thy child, take me! Atar, if thou didst bear hatred- if thou didst bear aught but contempt for Mairon- if thou dost consider Mairon an offspring of thy thought, take him! Take him and me! This I request…"**_

" **And this I will not grant. Long have I wished thee healed, son, yet thou hast in a persistent manner evaded all opportunities I have thrown thy way. I shall be denied no longer."**

Whose was this voice? I was deep and high, light and dark, kind and impatient at the same time. It was all-encompassing, all-enveloping, yet it was not one thing- it was not cruel. And all its characteristics were defined by one feature- love.

Arien heard the same voice, uttering different words-

" **Best beloved, fair daughter mine, if thou dost wish it, I beseech thee- do it."**

She knew what to do. She wished some of Mairon's fëa- but it was gone. She had to bring it back. To bring it back, she had to restore this dark one filled with shadows- and there was only one way.

It appeared Mairon would have to settle for some of hers.

A blast of flame from the core of her being, and the shadowed fëa of Sauron felt pain again. This was the greatest pain he had ever felt- the destruction of the ring was nothing- but he sensed another will behind his.

" _ **Embrace the pain, my son, and thou shalt be free."**_

He embraced it, therefore, and soon it began to feel almost sweet. He was being rid of the shadows- it would probably reduce him to nothing, but it felt as if a great burden was being lifted.

Finally, with a great surge of her indomitable will, Arien completed the final step. There was a great light, and all around her suddenly meant nothing. There was just her fëa, and Mairon's. A flame burned in the centre of her fëa- a dying spark provided no illumination for Mairon's.

She fed some of Mairon's flame with hers. The spark grew brighter, and grew in size- soon, it had become a small, flickering, yet fully- functional flame.

She had done it. The light receded, and a sudden weariness assailed her. She felt weaker, and exhausted.

 _Mairon first._

She ran a check of his fëa, and sure enough- the flame of Anor glowed bright at its centre. The shadows were slowly being dispelled.

Hesitantly, she checked her own. She did not regret this sacrifice. She went to her core, and found- _that the fire was burning brighter than ever before!_

 _What miracle was this?_

She felt exhausted, but for some reason, exhilarated. She had expected to lose a great deal of her power to revive Sauron, but she seemed to have gained an equal amount.

" **Be not surprised, best beloved- thou hast gained gifts equal to thy merit."**

She silently thanked her Atar, and veered the chariot down by a few degrees. She was extremely tired, yet carried the now static shadow that was Sauron's fëa with her, refusing to bend. And behold- the shadow was no longer a shadow. The darkness was peeling away, to be replaced by amber flames.

A winged maia lay in wait for her.

" _How is he, Uru? How is our Mae?"_

" _He sleeps."_

" _Can I see him? Oh my goodness, is that what he did to himself? What, oh what did you come to, my little brother? Why did you ever leave us?"_

" _Hush! This is no time for feelings. He is insensate, yet regaining awareness. It was painful- pain of a kind I am certain none but he could endure without succumbing to madness. Now, are you ready?"_

" _As I said before, I will do anything it takes to bring back my little brother- even scorch myself upon the sun, if necessary."_

" _You did pay attention to my lesson?"_

" _Ah, Uru, you offend me. I am the Herald of Manw_ _ë! I never fail."_

Arien shot a last glance at Eönwë, who took control of her chariot and wrapped his will around it. The Lord of the Maiar winced a little at the heat- but he would do it. Lady Varda had told him the correct course of the sun- the reason behind his inquisitiveness was easy enough; all knew that Arien needed a rest.

Arien slowly descended to Valinor. She came down to the western coast, and descended slowly. She felt the former maia stir from where she had bound him.

As she descended, she saw the structure she made for- The Halls of Mandos. Lord Námo would be waiting for her.

" _ **Where… where are you…"**_ said Sauron, forgetting his haughty archaisms in his weariness.

"You will see."

" _ **Why are you doing this? Why are you attempting to administer to me what you would regard as 'help'?"**_

It further tore at Arien's heart that Sauron did not accept or recognise her actions at help. This served to ensure that she could not continue without answering the former question.

"You are right. It is not merely due to friendship, fellowship or fraternity. I- Mairon, I…"

The Maia did not even interrupt and denounce the fact that she had called him Mairon.

"Forgive me, Mairon, forgive me!"

That sentence was not applicable to reason. Him? Forgive her?

" _ **Forgive you? Me, forgive you? I- I understand it not."**_

"I fear to say that you will. You see, Mairon- I have- I have…"

Sauron felt a new strength in him. He had recovered enough. Arien seemed to fall silent, and he would have none of it. He therefore issued, in a cutting tone, an order that he would have issued in Barad-ûr or Angband:

"Speak! I have no wish to be suspended on this edge of knowledge and ignorance! Do not waste my time! Speak, and now!"

It was rather a forceful command. A fitful thought came to Arien, that she should ignore it and simply advance- but she chose to speak. It was for the best.

"Mairon, I have fallen… for you. I wish to have you for my own, if you do not mind, of course…"

 _What was this? What lie was this? He would not be deceived._

"Speak the Truth or Speak Not!"

"I have fallen in love with you. I had for a long time- and not realised it. Even if I may have, in the past, indicated that I would prefer Eönwë, I… missed you. When you were around, there was always a nice, comforting feeling of warmth. When you left, that ceased to be. I felt, somehow… _cold. Incomplete._ I remembered your fëa- if only I could have a piece of it…"

She bent her head, refusing to say more. A treacherous tear threatened to come down, but she forced it back up. She would not let fall in front of another- not him.

* * *

As for Sauron, his thoughts ran on a different course.

 _What mighty hoax was this? This was a complete rendition of thoughts Mairon used to entertain for as long as Sauron could remember! Even when Mairon had gone, and Sauron had come, the thought of Arien had troubled him._

Sauron, the Dark Lord, had wished a bitter revenge. He started to manufacture revulsion equal to the love he once held. He turned his longing into fear. He blotted himself out, so that she could not see him. He removed her from the scene that was his fëa.

" _And that hurt me terribly."_ said Arien.

" _My- my thoughts-_ _ **how dare you probe my thoughts! What lie is this, what elaborate deception?! Who gave you the power to read my thoughts so that you can twist them and ensnare me? What trap are you leading me into? This… this is inconceivable!"**_

Arien wished to kill him, and horribly. Hadn't that fat-head of a maia recognised how she was willing to sacrifice to help him? How she had already helped him?

Would he not acknowledge the truth?

" _Mairon, I fear that Melkor's lies have gotten to your very core. I fear that you will not see truth even if it is plain before you. Therefore, I intend to take you to one who can distinguish the light from the darkness- one who can help redeem you from evil._

They were now at the Halls of Mandos. Arien touched down lightly, her bare feet treading lightly on the grass, and strode forward.

Out came a tall, dark figure, wearing robes of black with a silver trim. His majestic cloak shished against the wind and fluttered behind him as he walked regally forth.

" _Lord Námo."_

The fathomless black eyes of the Doomsman lit up with that beautiful twinkle Arien had become acquainted with. The Lord of Mandos smiled at her, and asked:

" **I presume you have him, dear child?"**

"He is bound to my fëa."

With a swift thought, Námo unbound Sauron's fëa from Arien's, and took it within the embrace of his own.

Sauron was… beyond terrified.

This was the Vala he feared above all else. He feared Námo and his dooms even more than he feared meeting Aulë.

But the Doomsman merely chuckled and said **"You find yourself at last at your appointed home, errant child. Only by the love of none other than the Sun have you managed to return to the light- and you shall find healing, not doom. Come with me."**

He turned to the entrance. Sauron's fëa was still trying to claw its way out by extending itself in wisps, but could not escape the Doomsman's grasp. Námo feared that it would be a long time before the maia could recognise and appreciate his redemption. He had one thing on his mind, though- the Maia would come to no dark doom. He would be shown nothing but love and compassion.

Eventually, he would understand.

Sauron himself realised how the Doomsman did not bind him and gently held him- and to his own amazement, realised that the reason he could not escape was himself, not the Doomsman.

A part of him- no, _most of him-_ wanted to stay and find healing.

However, he was a Dark Lord, and Dark Lords do not simply give in to the light.

Looking at Arien one last time, he whispered _"I hate you."_

And Arien recognised that despite the words, there was no venom. There was no hatred. There was… _frustration, reluctance and yet… relief._ She looked very deep and then found the slightest undertone of gratitude- gratitude that she had rescued him despite his own efforts.

" _I know, and I am counting on you to forgive me."_ she whispered, and walked off. She was going to take a long, well-earned rest.

* * *

 **Author's Note: So here I am, at it again. It would appear I am well-nigh completely stuck with 'The Shadow of Doom', and therefore thought it a good idea to wake the slumbering Balrog muse so that I can continue with this random nonsense.**

 **As for Sauron's return, he finds healing in this one, and his evil is somewhat lessened as a consequence. I also have an alternate version, in which he still manages to return after his ultimate defeat- but does not find healing, and therefore is forced to derive power from a source perhaps even darker than Melkor, and becomes a ruthless annihilator- yet there is still good left in him.**

 **That version is currently written in 'The Shadow of Doom', and I must say it took a rather large part of my thought. If you check that one out, you'll find there are even more ridiculous headcanon concepts that make this one seem perfectly feasible.**

 **Of course, in this one, he returns due to Arien- and in 'The Shadow of Doom', he returns due to the unwitting influence of the titular 'Shadow of Doom', Lord Mormanar.**

 **I might update this one- very irregularly, of course, and perhaps end it on a happy note, but Thank you for reading and reviewing all the same.**


	3. Melmenya Mairon

**Atalant** **ë**

 **Absolutely Gratuitous Author's Note {A{G+N)}:** **Darn Balrog… Congratulations to Sauron Gorthaur for correctly analysing and taking apart EVERY ASPECT of Arien and Mairon's relationship. You should be writing this story, not me- I feel quite out of depth. I suppose this story shall be taking a new direction now.**

 **Chapter 3: Melmenya Mairon**

 _A plan was needed._

What plan?

 _A plan was most definitely of the essence._

By Melkor, what plan?!

 _Some plan, by Ud_ _û_ _n! He needed a definite plan!_

With that Dread Lord of Doom watching his every move and hearkening to his every thought?

 _By the Powers that Be, he needed a plan! He_ _ **always**_ _needed a plan! A plan to break out, most likely- a plan to play along and rise in darkness later- perhaps even, with the tiniest probability, a plan to *attempt* to settle in- no, banish that last thought- but Mairon was order itself. He desperately needed a plan._

Námo broke his silence, and turned to look at the maia. A soft smile lit his face, but he hid it quickly, and turned to look at him.

"Lord Námo. I take it that your… duties… have drawn to a close? Or is it that you have aught else to conduct with me?" he asked _completely neutrally._

It took the best part of Námo's will to stifle the smile that his face threatened to betray. Ah, this one. Many would find the absolute, neutral, emotionless calm and utterly forced courtesy frustrating in every sense, but Námo could not help being entertained by it. Stubbornness, in his opinion, never failed to amuse- the notable explanation being a particularly fiery Noldo who still hadn't forgiven him- but this maia was so very stubborn that in his mind, it had become somewhat endearing.

He was spending hour upon hour of his time availing of the entirety of his unrivalled might in the realm of fëar, using impossible concentration to pull out every last fleck of shadow that was once a part of Sauron's fëa and joining it with the whole. And, of course, said Dark Lord had not shown even the slightest hint of appreciation and had acted as if it was a particularly unsavoury draught of bile being forced down his throat.

A trial would come soon- that he knew- but it did not concern him nearly as much as another matter of legality. A bond between two maiar was to be made, and one of the maiar was Sauron. The other one was even more stubborn than him, and would absolutely insist upon it- if Sauron was convinced, of course- which he did not doubt. That particular maia had a knack for being able to convince everyone of anything- the wills of Dark Lords she would consider trifles.

He was himself making quite some progress at convincing the former admirable smith of the truth what was laid out very plainly in front of his eyes, which of course conveniently kept themselves averted at all times. This healing would help him- it already had, and Námo suspected that he knew- but he refused to accept it. For reasons only known to him, the Vala of Doom found this rather amusing.

He got up, assuming a neutral expression- the smile, he was sure, would make the maia even more wary, and therefore Námo chose to cater to his wishes and thoughts.

" **Not quite, Mairon- but I shall leave now, for I am needed elsewhere. My duties here can only delay my other obligations for as long a time as I have given-"** – he said, making sure not to mention that he was spending so much of his precious time and effort in heaing the broken maia, a true statement that would not be appreciated in the least – **"- And therefore I am afraid I must leave you now. I suppose you will be… comfortable as you can be, and perhaps more so without my admittedly stifling presence."** he said. He had, of course, sensed that Sauron would like nothing better than for him to leave, and that his company was not appreciated.

"Denying the truth in front of you, O Lord Doomsman, would be folly." said Sauron quite plainly. He chose to speak the much-diluted truth in front of one who could clearly see it.

The Doomsman nodded, and left- but made sure to conduct a thorough cross-examination of Sauron's fëa. It did not surprise him.

There were three layers- _three._ The top layer, which he showed to the world, was all a sham of emotionless indifference, which made it seem as if he regretted none of his actions in the least.

The second layer was half-truth- it was a Dark Lord raging with terrible anger, fury and hatred. It was of a dark shadow of complete malice- but Sauron was not. He had healed much in this time- it was simply that he refused to acknowledge it beyond that which was completely obvious and impossible to mask.

The third layer- and he had to give credit to Arien for seeing it at once (He was beginning to grow rather fond of that maia), was completely different. It was sheer uncertainty- which was truth.

It was Sauron's true self- or rather, Mairon's. He was pained. Grieving. Doubting- and yet thankful. He was relieved- to an extent, even grateful- but simply refused to show it. He had stated that he hated Arien- but had no way to express himself apart from it. He was aware that a part of Mairon wished to believe that, and almost _wanted_ to truly hate her- but of that he was incapable. How could he be?

Námo was aware that the two already shared a bond, but neither was willing to take a step towards the right direction. The thought made even him, with his steeled mind, want to scowl with frustration.

He shook his head slightly- he was sure Mairon saw him, and hoped that it was misinterpreted as frustration towards the dark maia for not accepting his redemption.

The Doomsman went out finally, and felt oddly proud that Mairon was restraining his inevitable sigh of relief until he was completely sure that the Vala was out of earshot. Fat chance- the Vala could hear all that was going on in his halls- and he did hear a sharp intake of breath and an explosive release, followed by Mairon whispering to himself-

'It is time, you dawdling fool! By Udûn, an opportunity at last! Now a plan, just one plan… cannot do without a plan…'

* * *

Many would envy the mind of Manwë- so great and vast, with its unending memory. So impossible to stymie, and filled to the brim with ideas that challenged all accepted theories and concepts. He could quite easily explain the meaning of life, of existence and of reality, and therefore pave the way for millions of more questions to be asked- and provided he had given thought to these questions previously never thought of by others before (which he usually did), he could answer almost all of them.

To Manwë himself, however, the mind of Námo was an enigma. The Elder King had, in the past, tried to learn from the Doomsman, but even he found some of Námo's ways impossible to comprehend.

The Elder King was famed for his ability to tend to multiple thousands of tasks at once- requiring him to give attention to multiple thousands of thoughts at a time. Therefore, in a way absolutely impossible except for Valar, he sometimes wished he had Námo's ability to choose to tend to only _one_ thought at a time.

Námo could simply push other thoughts to the back of his mind and give his full attention to one- a common mortal would think it a disadvantage, but the Ainur knew that he could tend to multiple tasks as well as Manwë. However, he could keep them all in the background, almost subconsciously arranging for other matters to come to pass, in order to devote his full attention to one matter at a time.

It was this ability, however, that was to Námo's detriment at the time. So great was his focus on the… curious new guest he had chosen to accommodate, that he had forgotten another matter.

A grumble sounding much like a thunder-clap emanated from him. _Vána. Of course._

Now there was someone staunchly opposed to a certain union Námo was trying his utmost to facilitate.

The Doomsman knew himself to be particularly good at reasoning with his fellow Valar and Valiër- and he oft needed to.

His skill in debating had appeased many a raging or frustrated Vala. His skill at calming the mind had stayed many a dread-storm accidentally brought forth by some. His skill at sharp, cutting rebukes had made many see their folly- especially Aulë, when he had tried to invent those barrel-contraptions that fired deadly metal balls at terrifying speeds.

And finally, of course, his sheer mastery of the art of inspiring absolute and utter dread had been efficacious as well. So great was the terror of Mandos that he could stare Tulkas into silence from his constant laughter.

When he arrayed his robes menacingly around him, stood at his tallest and allowed a few shadows to stretch forth in front of him, he could make Oromë drop his spear, dismount Nahar, and immediately cease his hunting with whispered apologies.

Not so his wife. Vána, the Ever-Young, personified an aspect of Ilúvatar's mind that was hidden to him. For some reason, she refused to be affected by any logic or argument thrown at her. She was always quite bright and cheerful (annoyingly so for him), but now she was angry. Terrifyingly angry.

Angry at her chief maia for choosing to forsake her celestial duty- for _that_ maia. _That_ maia.

" _ **NOT HIM! IF THAT PUNY DARK LORD SO MUCH AS DARES COME NEAR MY CHILD, I WILL…"**_ The string of unsavoury words that followed would have amused Morgoth- had he not been very, very glad that he was in the void during this event. A wrathful Vána was quite terrifying- despite the birds. And the flowers.

He moved forth to reason with the Valië, growling as he did- when he saw before him a familiar figure, who was especially radiant.

It was quite a relief to his mind, and his face did crack a small smile. He allowed his eyes to twinkle a little- as they were prone to when she came to visit him- and whispered **"Ah, young one, I did not expect you here. Is it I who must owe the pleasure… or is it Mairon?"**

She said nothing in response- looking at him, and gave a small smile of her own.

" **Ah, it is as I foresaw, then. Are you here in secret, little one? You fled from Vána to come here, did you not?"**

The expression immediately turned fierce, and seeing the wrathful maia, Námo was aware of exactly what he was saying. His sense of humour surprised him at times. He chuckled genuinely- seeing her raise an eyebrow- and hastily apologised.

Normally, a Vala apologising would have increased suspicion, but since Arien had come to know him well, she relented.

" **Forgive me- I must say that I did not quite recognise the irony of my words. I know, however, that Lady Vána would allow you here, would she? How is it that you managed to convey yourself nonetheless?"**

At that, Arien looked down, refusing to say anything.

" **Ah, a dispute. I see."**

"Your skills of deduction are as great as ever." she said, perfectly flatly.

" **And yet you find it fit to come here in her despite?"**

Arien looked up, first confused, and then exasperated. She decided to explain.

"Nay, it is not that. I… prevailed."

A maia winning an argument against a Valië? Completely unheard of! It was not unusual amongst the Valar (Olórin was a living testament to it) but silencing a Valië- on second thought, Námo was not surprised it was Arien. If someone was to do it- of course it would be her.

He knew not whether to grumble (for his task had been doubled) or to feel oddly proud. He wondered if he should keep her by his side the next time Nienna decided she needed to 'talk' to him about his ways.

" **Ah, young one, you never cease to astound. You may see him, of course- but it might take well-nigh another miracle to get him to acknowledge what is plain and obvious."**

Arien shook her head, and disappeared into the halls.

As for Námo, he chose to summon his blackest, most menacing cloak directly from his wardrobe in the halls. He donned it, rolling up his dark sleeves slightly, and attempted to look like dread incarnate. He only hoped it would be enough.

* * *

The first few steps were set in motion. He would act as if he had seen the error of his ways- _anything to get out of these halls._ He could then manipulate his old master Aulë's weakness for him and enter the Smith's mansion, and steadily gain power from there.

He could then formulate the rest of his plan, including his eventual esca…

' _Mairon?'_

Melkor Almighty, NO!

All thought of the plan immediately left his head when he heard the melodious- _gah-_ voice. He could not seem to bring anything back. He could feel an odd jerk behind his navel as well. And above it all, his voice chose to fail him.

' _Mairon? Ah, there you are. May I come in, or is it that you would…'_

As if anything could stop her if she wished entry. He forced his voice to obey him.

" _Enter._ " he managed to choke out harshly. She did so.

He found himself immediately overwhelmed by the radiance- _although he did indeed like it after the years of dark-_ No! He would not flag or flail!

Arien looked at him, and looked anywhere but at her. He tried to appear as if a dignified lord of the maiar, while silently trying to quell all sorts of nonsense that was taking place inside his mind.

" _You are conflicted."_

"Must you see through everything?" he ground out, finally looking at her. He hoped he appeared calm and unfazed.

"Of course I must. It has become akin to a duty, for some stubborn, thick-headed ignoramuses tend to go out of their way to avoid what is laid out plainly in front of them." she said completely nonchalantly, and idly took Námo's chair. As if completely by chance, she set it down and sat directly in front of Mairon.

She gave him credit as he did not immediately look away, and retained a sort of stiff composure.

"Forgive me, my lady…"

"Arien will do."

"I am not used to nor an advocate of addressing people by name rather than their proper addresses. Therefore, I must ask you to forgive me, _Lady Arien, bearer of Anar,_ for I have no desire to idle away time in trifles such as conversation."

It tore at Arien inside to see that even after she had done and gone through so much, she still could not get through to him. _Just how much would she have to go through to have her Mairon back? She just wanted her friend of old returned to her…_

She showed nothing, and simply said "Hmm, it appears you have done away with your archaisms. Perhaps I might not find you as much of an annoyance after all."

Sauron was not quite so successful at holding back the deluge of memories she had just triggered, as he flinched noticeably twice. She congratulated herself.

" _Not changed a bit, have you…"_ he grumbled, realising it and silencing himself at the last moment.

"Perhaps not. As for you, however, you have indeed changed a lot, have you not?"

He laughed at that, a cruel, mirthless cackle.

" _Change? Change?! Nay, my lady- I am Sauron, Dark Lord of Middle-earth. My advent was as Dark Lord, and ever have I been Dark Lord. I have been none else, save Tar-Mairon at Núménor- 'twas but a pretence."_

And once again, he seemed to be trying his best to tear her heart asunder. She would not allow it. No matter how much he hurt or upset her, she would stay resolute.

' _Is that the best you can do, 'Lord' Sauron?'_ she said, prompting a truly cruel reply.

"Your persistence is foolish- let me demonstrate. Like a deluded, blind lunatic, you call for Mairon. So blinded were you by your _compassion-_ such _weakness-_ that you brought Sauron back, not Mairon! And now, you dare tell Arda's Dark Lord that he has changed?! _**MAIRON IS DEAD! I WAS THE END OF HIM! I DOOMED HIM!**_ Now, all that remains is- _darkness._ "

" _And here you have proved to me and yourself, that your words are naught but lies."_

" **What?"**

" _You have lost your touch, have you not? You were once quite good at lying, Mairon."_

" **What tomfoolery is this?"**

" _Ah, Mairon- and now my pretence falls along with yours._ I have been trying to have you say those words all along. Do you know how much it hurts to… to hear them? Do you know how much you have put me through… even though I do not show it?"

" **This is absolutely…"**

And yet his voice insisted on failing him when she spoke. She capitalised on it.

"Look! Look at yourself! You wish to hear me to the end, but you still think yourself bound the darkness! You are not, Mairon. When you said 'Mairon is dead', you said it with a sense of regret, of longing! Do you not see now? Your tones were not of rage, they were of grief! How can you hope to lie to me, Mairon, when you must lie to yourself?"

"I…I…" he stuttered, dumbfounded.

"And why must you lie to yourself? Why do you not care for the truth? You were brave once, Mairon- so very brave- but I regret to say that you must have become cowardly indeed to act as you have!"

" _Cowardly? You accuse me of being a coward? I faced the entire world and all its peoples alone, running away only when the alternative meant certain annihilation, and you accuse me of…"_

" _Yes, Mairon, I accuse you of being cowardly! The Mairon I knew would never have caused us- any of us- such pain! You are scared, Mairon- scared- I see it in every action and every word of yours. You fear that you will come only unto terrible doom. You fear that if you acknowledge truth, your existence for the past two ages would have been a lie! But I ask you, Mairon- be brave for once! Look upon what is laid in front of you and face it."_

Sauron could not say anything. To have Arien release the entirety of her feelings at him robbed him of his powers of speech- but not of thought.

 _Had they all truly felt that terrible? Had anybody really hoped for his return and redemption?_

Part of him- no, most of him, was moved. The part that told him that compassion was weakness- _Morgoth's voice-_ seemed to have been drowned in a wave of fire by Arien's sudden wrath.

How fitting, that wrath and accusation would be the one thing that could convince Mairon of his folly- and Arien knew it.

" _You seek to hold on to your darkness and helpless rage, and to lash out at everybody- to protect yourself. You think that darkness is the one thing to have kept you from annihilation- it is not! You will never hear me say this, Mairon- to anyone or ever again, in fact- but sometimes, it is perfectly alright to be vulnerable. To take stock of one's weaknesses, and to return all the stronger for it."_

Sauron wanted to berate her for preaching against the most basic policies of survival he had followed, but _he simply could not._ This new side of him, the side that wanted to hear her until she was finished, was completely overpowering him. He suspected that it was due to Arien, of all people- the most invincible, the highest and mightiest, the most intangible- telling him that it was impossible, and indeed inadvisable, to show strength at all times.

" _How many times have I told you to simply let fly? To let go of all the shadows that would bind you in darkness. It is truly freeing, Mairon. I urge you to try. If not for yyour sake- then for ours, for all of ours. For Aulë's sake- Eönwë's- and mine. Please, Mairon."_

The perfect order he had always cherished was crumbling. His impeccable control had been completely derailed. He fought to keep back treacherous tears. He could not gauge the exact impact of Arien's speech- but it was profound. There was even a part of him- an overwhelming part of him that wanted to take her by the hand and embrace her like the friend she once was… _and perhaps something more._

His hand shot forward, without warning, and his brow furrowed, he restrained it- but Arien was never merciful with regards to letting people off on slip-ups.

She immediately took his hand before he could draw it back, and Sauron's eyes shut, his motuh contorting into an expression of pain.

Her hold was light- _but it burnt. Bloody Udûn did it burn._

" _Look past the pain, Mairon- and I daresay you will find something you would quite like."_

And at that moment, he chose to stop struggling against the memories, and suddenly the hand felt beautifully comforting to the touch. He wished to cling to it harder, but stopped himself. He could not be brought to care whether Arien noticed it or not.

" _ **What… are you d-doing… to me?"**_

" _I am helping you overcome your greatest enemy, Mairon- yourself."_

And he quite liked the sound of that. Opening his eyes, he uttered warily:

"What… what is it that you… that you could want with me?"

And at this Arien sighed. She let go of his hand, at which it was immediately drawn back into the folds of his dark robe.

"You see, Mairon, I… have had to sacrifice quite a lot to bring you to redemption. I have not kept it secret that I do indeed love you- and you have seen how much I have sacrificed to bring you back. However, it is time, now, to acknowledge a rather… different kind of love."

" _A… different kind?"_

" _Yes, a different kind. Please, do me a favour and spare me the embarrassment of having to say it. If you ever considered me a friend, please do not force me to say it. You know what it is, do you not…"_

His expression immediately turned suspicious, and he scrutinised her fully. What she had said was exactly what he imagined she would have said had she been forced to acknowledge feelings of this nature- AI, BY ILÚVATAR, NAY!

It was impossible!

It was the same! Absolutely the same! It was the same with Mairon!

He recalled Mairon fantasising about her making such a revelation to him. In his daydreams, she had said precisely the same words, for she was incapable of saying anything else.

This was impossible.

' _Morgoth, end me now."_ He prayed. It had all gone unrequited- it was a replica of what Mairon had felt. And now, she was revealing this to Sauron. She should have said this to _Mairon,_ not _Sauron._

"Blast you and your dratted perfect order! Mairon and Sauron are the same, so there! In fact, Sauron never existed- it was simply an unfair name the elves were unwise to give you. Now Stop! Separating! Yourself! Into! Two! People!"

 _She had said that the elves were unfair to bestow such an unsavoury name upon him. Both Mairon and Sauron had thought the same- perhaps they were the same._

Perhaps he did not need to separate them with such persistence after all.

' _Morgoth, if I was ever useful to thee, end me now.'_ he said again.

He dared open an eye, and saw her in all her splendour, and promptly shut it again.

This was the purest, most beautiful kind of love he had ever seen, so much so that even his untrained and unused eye could say so. She had persisted despite his own efforts. Eru knew how much she had had to suffer in the process. _Nay- he did not deserve her. She was too noble- to impossibly lovely for someone as Dark as him._ He doubted he would ever forgive himself if he gave in to her wishes.

Her love for him had always come second to the sacrifices she had made for him. At last, he was forced to acknowledge it all behind his barriers. And when one sees the truth, one can never ignore it.

He fell back on his last resort.

" _Are you sure… are you truly sure you… do indeed… wish… m-me?"_ he said slowly, hoping she said no.

And that was the last straw.

She could not take any more of this absolute nonsense. _Even after so much, that complete fat-head refused to acknowledge it! Even now, he chose to deny the obvious! Well then, she would have the last laugh._

He had forced her hand.

She looked straight at his eyes, which immobilised him, saw him fight his roiling emotions, and swooped in to touch his lips with hers. It was the most fleeting, tiny little kiss.

For the first and last time in his existence, Mairon fainted unconscious. In hindsight, Arien would reflect that she should not probably have done that. It most definitely proved too much of a 'revenge'.

In hindsight, the once Dark Lord would regard it as the most dignified response he could have thought of at the moment. He would never forget to thank Ilúvatar every now and then that he had not been able to overcome his feelings- for if he had, he would have most probably done something quite stupid- perhaps he would have attempted to embrace her, or worse yet, _do-the-thing-that-she-did-to-him-back-to-her._ He would never have been able to live with that.

* * *

To say that Námo was feeling extremely odd would be an understatement.

He, with his bruised arm and half-burnt face, was comforting a crying Vána, who was making more references to doom than he ever did- and he was notorious for making references to doom.

If it were not for Manwë's help in controlling all the lightning Vána had conjured before she could vaporise the Doomsman's fána, he doubted he could have brought himself to comfort her.

He had even been forced to speak three dooms in succession and will a fate into existence that involved Vána being incapable of shouting, for she would otherwise not listen to reason. When he and Manwë had finally gotten her to accept that this would happen no matter what, if not for anything else then due to the very nature of the maiar involved, she had decided to put Nienna to shame.

And then he sensed somebody fainting in his halls. He had no doubt who, and immediately deduced as to what prompted it. Even though he was secretly very gladdened and wished to joyfully shout 'Finally!', he did wonder if he really needed to give Arien _another_ lesson in patience.

* * *

 **A/N: Just when did this turn into fluff? What in the world made me write that most reviled of things, fluff? I thought ceasing to update for a long time would eliminate any chances of that! Just my luck, having a Balrog for a muse.**

 **So much for being a Dark Lord of Doom- but thank you all for reading and reviewing.**


	4. Ai Eru, i Lúmë Veryanwëo sísië

**Atalant** **ë**

 **A Completely Unnecessary Author's Note: {A(C*U + N) - ∞** **-1** **\+ log** **x^** **y^** **0** **}:** **To the Quenya readers among us, despite this chapter's title, this is not the story's end. To the inquisitive among us, I will most definitely never attempt to write another tale like this one again, thankyouverymuch. To the observant among us, the mathematical operations are perhaps a reflection of Sauron trying to 'solve' the matter of his nuptial as he would an equation, or of me being impossible. And to the rest, thank you for reading and reviewing.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Ai Eru, i L** **ú** **m** **ë** **Veryanw** **ë** **o s** **í** **si** **ë**

' _Ai, ai, ai… my lord, wherefore hast thou doomed us? Hast thou not the sight to comprehend the consequence of thine action? Arda, my beloved Arda- 'twill most definitely burn for this!'_

" _ **Be silent, for I am pronouncer of doom here, not thee. Perhaps thou should'st have been set upon by a dilemma akin to his… perhaps 'twould firmly draw thy tongue out of thy cheek."**_

A maia, who was by nature a terribly convivial and patient maia, had begun the arduous task of striking his boot against the floor in an attempt to utterly destroy both- and had been doing so for quite some time.

As he waited, what started as a gentle tapping grew louder and louder, taps turning to kicks against the black marble, the owner of the boot become more irascible by the second.

Eönwë had half a mind- nay, nine and ninety hundredths of a mind- to grab the prowling Dark Lord in front of him by the shoulder and give him a good, long, hard shake.

The only constraint was that _she_ would not thank him- she would probably turn him to ashes for laying but a single finger on Mairon.

Eönwë had himself made the prediction that the world would soon burst into flames if this union was made, but Lord Námo had been a tad… eccentric lately. By 'lately', of course, he meant the past five hundred years, which was the time that had passed between Arien's rescue of Mairon and this… occasion. The Herald himself had played a large part in the Dark Lord's redemption, while Mairon found joy again in smithing and craftsmanship.

Life had been oddly turbulent in Valinor, what with a certain Maia having to be taught the basic ways of life. He had grown to love Arien quite deeply, that was sure, but had not for a long time known to express his feelings. The prospect of a nuptial had scared him and he had acted both like a child and a dark lord, menacingly forbidding anyone to mention it and finding excuses to flee whenever Arien was in the general vicinity. And then he found he did not really wish to be far from Arien, who had resumed her duties- as much as that surprised him- and found himself missing her.

He had also been working fervently on an unnamed project with Aulë for about two hundred years. Finally, he started making impromptu visits to Arien whenever Anar reached the horizon, and over another hundred years led to this occasion. These past fifty years, it was in fact Mairon who was adamant that it should take place, and Arien became hesitant- whether that was to be avenged on Mairon, Eönwë knew not- but finally, when Mairon's work with Aulë had concluded, Arien had consented, and disappeared off somewhere, not to be seen by any save perhaps the Valar.

And finally, when the day arrived, in characteristic fashion, Mairon had gained an utter dread of everything. He had started treating the occasion as a test, as a problem to solve, and was scheming and plotting all day for the past year. This fateful day, he had been prowling, never once speaking or resting.

And Eönwë had had enough.

"Mairon, you insufferable maia, SIT DOWN!"

 _No answer._ Mairon made some odd mutterings and continued prowling.

"AS HERALD OF MANWË AND LORD OF THE MAIAR, I COMMAND YOU, MAIRON AULENDIL, TO-"

" _Watch it, you fool!"_

And it was then that Eönwë saw Mairon looking directly at him, eyes flaming amber, wide and panicked.

'Now what, you… oh.'

Since when had he brought out his sword and taken the stance of a wrath-guard? Eönwë dropped the greatsword immediately- he was perhaps a little too fond of it- and backed away. It was now that he could see a bolt of flame forming in Mairon's hand.

" _As always, Fiô, quite professional."_

"If you would stop being such a child about it, perhaps my state of mind would not be akin to a thread on a knife's edge!"

"What? After your silence despite my years as Dark Lord, I rouse your wrath for simply trying to not destroy my own marriage?"

"Nay, 'tis not that, little brother- surely you can see it, for your eye was said to pierce cloud, earth shadow and flesh- could it not?"

Mairon now looked completely perplexed. Eönwë took a mighty breath and released a shout as deafening as an eruption of Orodruin:

" **LOOK AT YOURSELF, YOU COMPLETE MORON!"**

'Moron'. Interesting term, most definitely. In Quenya it would mean 'Dark One'. With regards to his appearance, Mairon could understand why Eönwë would use it to refer to him. However, it was clear the Herald's intent was to use it in the Westron context as well… a pity he couldn't quite put why anybody would ever wish to refer to him as such.

Of course, Eönwë was referring to how 'Sauron' had managed to bedeck himself in a black robe, an even blacker robe over it, and in full armour, complete with black gauntlets- the pauldrons were the only accessories missing. And, typically so, there was a truly _enormous_ cloak.

It took Mairon about a minute.

'Perhaps… perhaps I was mistaken with the gauntlets…"

Eönwë then summoned a mighty gale to tear the gauntlets off his hands, and then with some choice Khuzdûl (wherever had he learnt that) informed him that if he donned his armour, he would strike it off personally. The former Dark Lord, however, turned out fiercely protective of the cloak.

"And why in Udûn are there gloves and knee-guards?"

And then it was finished. Mairon wondered whether they looked ridiculous, arguing like this- perhaps someone was watching them- yet the truth struck him more deeply. The armour, he saw now, was a bit too much as a precaution- but he could not in words explain how he simply knew his knees would fail him, how his hands would burn him when the time finally came to take hers in them as they stood before the Valar.

"Fiô…"

"Nay, say it not. I know- I know it well." said Eönwë, comprehension dawning.

There was always something peculiar about Eönwë, about how he sometimes appeared to know exactly what was on his mind. It was uncanny, and never ceased to surprise him- he had even attempted to scientifically examine it once- and he still could not understand it. He sighed, unusually so, and looked down at his chest. Perhaps the dark armour was, after all, unnecessary.

Eönwë clapped a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to meet his gaze.

' _I know this scares you, Pityaháno.'_

The dark maia was tempted to laugh. In truth, he was more terrified than he would be of a raging Melkor with songs of discord on his mind, or of a dispassionate Námo pronouncing some almighty doom to cast him to the void.

"How can you ever attempt to know to what extent it scares me, you narrow-minded Herald? How in Eä can you? Your empathy- and how willing you are to give it- ever has it been flawed, deeply flawed. How can you ever think to put yourself in my place, to know what I feel? Have you ever had your world shattered, then melted, then cast into order while molten and healed again? Have you ever found peace only for it to be destroyed? Have you ever been the subject of a doom of free-will, my dear Fiônnôwenûz?"

'I have not, Mairon- I know not to what extent you feel, and what gave rise to your feelings. I do, however, know what you feel now- even though I have never myself felt it. I know you, Aulendil- Lord of Order- and I know how you would feel shaken, nigh- _stretched_ at such an occasion. _An earthen flame ne'er could stoke the heavens- you say-_ and yet here you have the very brightest, very holiest of flames by your side. This is no doom to me, Mairon- and if it is, then is it not encouraging? Paradox you may think it, but how can one not see the perfection of this union? All your existence, you have pursued the ideal- and here you are, having come the closest. Your fear is pardonable- but I sense in you a love as well, one as fierce and steadfast as the love you bear for Arda. Embrace it, Mairon, and forever shall your chains be broken."

Mairon shook his head slightly, looking down. He knew that this could only proceed, but he chose then to tell Eönwë of a matter that had been biting at his conscience since that first conversation at Mandos.

"H-háno… 'tis not that, I… I feel akin to a thief. One undeserving. After what she has done- after the great destiny she yet fulfils- am I worthy? It feels incorrect- terribly wrong- to have her to myself so, even if she may wish it. When I look upon her splendour, it is ever too much for my eyes to bear. I- once Dark Lord- taking the hand of the very symbol of hope and light in Arda? W-why?"

Eönwë shook his head slightly. Golden locks falling to his face, he chose to demonstrate.

"Look upon me in this wrath-guard, Mairon, observe my stance. You know an elegant master such as I would be better suited to perhaps the guard of the full iron gate- or indeed, the boar's tooth- but this is my preferred guard nonetheless, and never have I suffered defeat after taking it. It may not seem right to you, Mairon, but you _know_ it is. Nothing could ever be more fitting. If you somehow believe that you will fail this world if you marry her, then the world might as well burn, and yet you shall take your hand. As for being unworthy- you will never say that again. Hearken to me, Mairon- never shall you say that again while I still draw breath. Is it understood?"

It was then that the Herald noticed an extremely rare, solitary tear making its way down the Dark Lord's cheek. He wiped it away gently- drawing a half-hearted glare, and bade him be ready.

"A long journey presents itself, Mairon- why these Valar insisted on holding it at the Mâchananaškad yet eludes me- Lord Námo and his strange ways…"

* * *

'A word, if you may, Lord… _Mairon_ … Aulendil.'

The aforesaid Maia turned about sharply to see the very being of his nightmares.

 _Tilion._

Eönwë wondered if he should step between the two, or simply take Mairon and leave. There was a most peculiar voice in his mind, however- most likely Lord Námo's- that advised him to allow the conversation. He began to regret it as the one he called brother contorted his face in a snarl of pure hatred and walked towards the bearer of Ithil with a purposely heavy stride.

The Moon-hunter himself looked somewhat resigned- as if grudgingly acknowledging a victory.

' _What do you want, Isilcolindo? If my demise and banishment to the void is your wish, I am afraid to inform you that you will be terribly disappointed.'_

"Ah, silence that venomous mouth of yours for an instant and hark, you prat. It gives me no less pleasure to see you than it does you to see me- and yet I must tell you something nonetheless. Will you hear me?"

Mairon shifted wearily, his brow furrowing. Out of all who walked Arda, he trusted Tilion the least- except for, perhaps, that nasty Curumo-turncoat. He gnashed his teeth, making a show of how he would listen but as grudgingly as possible.

"Good. You must know that I… ahem, I…"

" **Spit it out, you imbecilic…"**

" _I thank you."_

It was a miracle his jaw had not fallen from his maw entirely.

"What… what is the meaning of this?"

He had seen evidence of Tilion's fabled love for Arien- the maia had made it quite apparent. He had heard the songs of Elven harpists from afar- they liked to sing of how he would be united with his love at the end of all things.

When Arien had rescued Mairon, Tilion was aghast. On the day it was revealed that she wished to join her fëa with his and have his hand in marriage, Ithil lost its light. It was a phenomenon like no other in Gondor- the tale of the day the moon wept had become functionally immortal.

Tilion sighed. Although he would have loved to leave his nemesis with his jaws agape for eternity, he chose to explain himself.

"Mairon… I loved her, as you know- but she never did love me. It was for my own sake, I realised- for I could not possibly withstand her full splendour. I could never brighten the days of the one who is the light of the day herself- I thought none could- and yet you do. In you, she has found happiness at last. For that, I thank you."

And it was then that Mairon realised that Tilion truly did love Arien. It was a bit of a tragedy, in fact- but now, naught could be said or done. All that had come to pass was that he finally understood what it all meant. He did not know if he wished to come to this realisation- a pity that he could not ignore it any longer.

"If you will pardon me, I cannot bear to attend your marriage- for me, the grief is yet too near. If you at any moment disappoint her- know that you have me and the bite of my arrows to answer to." said he, and left.

Mairon turned to Eönwë, who sighed longsufferingly and prepared to continue their march.

* * *

 _ **He was a fool.**_

 _ **An utter, utter fool.**_

The power and splendour radiating from the Doom-ring was beyond him.

This was the place it would all end, then. The place he feared most and had dreaded for a half and three ages.

Ever had the dread nightmare of an awaiting trial at the Máhanaxar lain heavy on the mind on Sauron- ironic indeed that what others proclaimed would be 'the happiest day of his existence' was to take place in it instead.

There could be no question- Mairon or not, he would prefer the trial.

But with the Herald of Manwë behind him and paying heed to his every move, there could be no return. _Cursed be Eönwë. Blessed be Eönwë._

The Herald's wings unfurled softly as he walked forth, placing his hand on Mairon's forehead and bidding him go. A silent missive to Manwë was sent by his Herald's mind, and the great gate opened, followed by a burst of light and power- yet hiding the Powers gathered beyond. It was constructed to humble, to flummox and to provide a taste of the might of the Lords of the West- and they could not think of a more fitting place.

And for that reason, Mairon now thought of them as bumbling fools without any trace of empathy.

The once Dark Lord reflected on how his life had conducted him to this moment. He did love her, and he did wish this union- and so he would have to suffer through it all. His breaths grew shallow and quick- and then, perhaps belatedly, came the fiery pride of Mairon of eld.

' _By Eru, a coward to the end, are you?! Ever running from your problems, now you cannot face your own wife? Nay, march in there, hold your head high and be done with it!'_ he chastised himself. When he looked upon the walls made of that strange stone, it was with an iron resolve.

Eönwë, with the practised skill of a master, noticed that his dear brother had given himself a tongue-lashing worthy of a most verbose rhetorician among the Noldor- and wondered why it had taken so long to come. He almost wondered if he'd have to give it himself- a pity that would contrast greatly with the general perception of him he and Manwë had worked so very hard to build.

He therefore swept his wings mightily to give Mairon's tremendous cloak the wind it needed to flap about ominously, just as Mairon liked it, while the former Dark Lord quite literally stormed into the Máhanaxar with a thunderous stride.

It was to his credit that he did not halt at the sight that awaited him.

 _Why in Udûn did every last one of the Valar have to be in attendance?_

And, of course, the nightmare he had been fearing simply _had_ to become truth- it seemed as if Lord Námo would be officiating.

There was a ridiculous pond at the centre of the Ring- that would most likely be Ulmo's method of attendance.

He walked up the high pedestal at the centre, and shot a cursory glance at each one of the Valar in a subtle swivel that did not go unnoticed. By Melkor, most of the wretched Powers seemed to be enjoying themselves- how dare they!

Lord Manwë had a faraway look in his twinkling blue eyes, as did Lady Varda who looked to her stars, and their hands were linked.

Lady Yavanna, who was initially hostile on seeing Mairon's return, seemed almost relieved- and even proud. How he hated that.

Irmo and Estë, both with little smiles on their faces, both quite obviously content with the occasion.

Nienna, who looked as if this was the wedding day of her own child, and Vairë who sat on her lone throne, wishing her dear Doomsman were beside her.

The majestic Námo himself stood at his Doomsman's pedestal, with his black book of dooms in one hand, and an official-looking expression on his face that belied his joy at his hard work coming to fruition.

There was Tulkas, the one slow to forgive- but slow to anger as well. Eönwë had worked hard to have Mairon somehow befriend the Vala of War- a process they were both equally stubborn in their refusal of- yet a common interest in maces and their effective use proved most efficacious in at least persuading the two to have civil conversation. Mairon found Lord Tulkas very easy to befriend afterwards, especially after crafting various bejewelled maces for the Vala's collection.

He beamed now at him in a manner that Mairon utterly hated. The only one Mairon seemed to agree with was Nessa, who had only eyes for Tulkas- at least she was not looking at him, unlike the other 'beady-eyed divine vultures'.

Of the Valar that were sobbing, two distinctions could be made- the first was Aulë, face awash with golden tears of happiness for his former apprentice. His hands were together, and he looked at Mairon in a way that made the maia want to curl in on himself and never show his face to the world again. His tears came forth in rather a beautiful, restrained manner.

The one who was sobbing uncontrollably was Vána, she who Mairon (and secretly Námo) had taken to calling 'Dread Wrath-herald of Valinor'.

Oromë, at least, had the dignity to look calm and concerned (as the Vala had a very long-running association with Námo, who had beaten a considerable amount of sense into him), and was consoling his wife as best as he could.

For the former Dark Lord, however, there was to be no respite. A wave of Námo's hand and the great doors opened, revealing… _her._

In truth, Mairon could not quite describe her appearance, blinded as he was. He did not cover his eyes with his cloak, which was good, and uttered a few words in Black Speech, which was not.

Memories of what he was supposed to do then flooded him, and he walked down, hands rising and falling erratically in his indecision.

' _Take it, you fool, take it!'_ he growled to himself, and finally mustered the courage to take her hand in his. He felt it again- warm, comforting- wait for it- ah, now it burned.

Gritting his teeth, he somehow managed to convey her to the top of the pedestal. There was that familiar jerk behind the knees. There was his treacherous throat running dry. Perhaps he was not mistaken with the gauntlets after all.

In any circumstance, an observer might have found it comical- save in this one. Arien knew the tragedy behind his hesitance and his pain. And so she brought him around the only way she knew he would respond to- a rather heavy mental lash.

It was all Mairon could do to not reel under the weight of her gaze, and she knew she had to stoke it a little further.

"What is this, my dear, delicate Mairon? Should I perhaps snuff out the flames you once admired?"

And then came the pride she was so very used to. Almost crushing her hands in a Dark Lord's vice-like grip, he glowered and said-

" **Too long have I failed too many- nevermore. Delicate- hah! I will endure this night's torments and say not a word. Perchance then you will silence that tongue of yours with which you see fit to wound in melodic tones."**

She smiled, then, and behold- he was blinded again. Yet he had made his promise, and would not falter. He turned then, to Lord Námo and his maia in chief, Turmandë, with a glare that bade him proceed.

The Doomsman, who was very near chuckling fondly at the two, hastily began ere he lost his impassive mien.

* * *

" **Brothers and kinsmen all, this day ye shall witness the union of Rušuranaškâd of the people of Achûlêz, and Urušigas, chief among the people of Váyanaz. Forged in doom are ye oaths, and blesséd be ye by Atar and all who hold witness.**

' **Tis a day of redemption, of darkness belay'd, of hope 'gainst shadow and the triumphal march of the bonds of love, that greatest and most mysterious of forces. By thy name, dear Atar, joy to thy children evermore.**

 **My Lord Mânawenûz, creation thou art- essence of the beginning. And so begin thou shalt, in the blessing of this hour."**

The Elder King stood then, and the Star-Queen with him. Storms lit the sky, and the stars shone brighter, all illuminating their Lords' majesty.

" _Many years have I awaited this hour, and many memories doth it rouse within. In this our song of sorrowful beauty, this I proclaim an incidence of beauty that carries with it naught but joy._

 _ **By the airs and the breath of Arda, blesséd be this union."**_

" _Years have I spent in the hallowing of my great works so that ye may have light to guide ye eyes. This union, I proclaim, shall draw forth a light to warm the very fëa._

 _ **By the Stars, blesséd be this union."**_

Aulë was next, but he declined to speak, as it appeared he had aught else in mind to which purpose this could wait. Something seemed to pass between he and Yavanna, who took her seat in silence. Speech, therefore, moved to Irmo and Estë.

" _No dream or vision I can conjure may rival ye, belovéd children. 'Tis a picture of the ideal in reality that naught from the surreal may best._

 _ **By dreams, visions and prophecy, blesséd be this union."**_

" _A day of redemption thou hast heralded, Urušigas, and Rušur, thou dost stand healed, return'd from the darkness. In this I find mine own benediction._

 _ **By rest and healing, blesséd be this union."**_

Mairon could not believe himself- why was it so very bright, all of a sudden? Perhaps it was- nay. He knew it- _it was all truly felt, these beautiful words. They cared._ He could not explain why he felt touched to his core. He did not like it0 but perhaps it was something one needed to get used to.

A thunderous voice was speaking from nowhere- Ulmo's. Against his better judgment, he chose to hearken.

" _Long have I and my people of the waters stood in disbelief of ye who have mastery of flame. Now I see that flame may be as precious to this world as water. There is as much life in ye fires as there is in mine oceans._

 _ **By the seas and waters, blesséd be this union."**_

Nienna, once again looking the proud Valië, spoke as if vindicated against the laws of Eä itself.

" _Compassion I regard the highest and greatest form of love, and through compassion has this redmeption been forged. True beauty arises through love and love alone._

 _ **By mercy and redemption, blesséd be this union."**_

Tulkas next.

" _Strength of arms I may be mightiest in, but true strength doth stem from the will to sacrifice for the sake of one loved. The mightiest strength is the strength of will, to ne'er abandon that which is thought lost. For that, I envy ye._

 _ **By valour and glory, blesséd be this union."**_

Arien let loose a little breath she had been holding after this sophisticated utterance.

" _In the minds of all, even Melkor, beauty and a love of great works doth reign. Of this union bright under shadow'd night, no dance can convey the tale._

 _ **By delight and joy, blesséd be this union."**_

And Nessa simply had to ruin it, for this would-be-beautiful pronouncement was made all the while gazing at Tulkas.

"Utterly incorrigible." said Arien and Mairon at the same time, before stumbling in shock that they had managed to come to agreement over a situation.

It was finally time for the words of Oromë and Vána. Only the great mind of the Elder King perceived the subtle yet chilling mental warnings Námo was sending their way apart from the two. There was much coughing to be done, and much sniffing, after which Oromë chose to speak.

" _Ahem- Years have I spent in the pursuit of a great hunt, and years have been spent for thy redemption, Mairon. A few yéni must pass ere I see the true meaning of this occasion, yet I know the joy that is wont to come from the attainment of the fruit of such a great labour._

 _ **By the Wild and by the unconquerable, blesséd be this union."**_

It was the truth in the purest form he could tell it. He looked pointedly at his wife, who finally drew her wetted hand from her eyes. Softly, silently, hesitantly, Vána spoke.

" _Arien, best beloved… I… I can scarce speak of that which thou hast done. I know n-not whether ''tis for good or ill, and I know not whether this Dark Lord is y-yet capable of love- but I have seen thy happiness when thou dost behold him, and ne'er have I seen thee thus contented. If… this… is what thou dost truly wish..._

 _ **B-by the eternal and the perennial, blesséd be th...this union!"**_

 _And so it had been done._

Vairë stood, rising to come to Námo's side. She took his hand, although he did not proffer it- but neither did he protest. The Doomsman was finding it terribly hard to belay the awfully wide smile that threatened to overcome his face.

" _Arda's history it is my duty to record- and with a weaver's passion do I cherish the most beautiful of moments, woven in the finest of threads. I fear, however, I may lack the thread to convey how we cherish this moment- all of us. A crown jewel this shall be among all my works._

 _ **By the past, present and future, blesséd be this union."**_

The last to speak would be Námo, but he had little to say. For all his grand skill with words, they were but limited vessels of meaning. It would be futile to attempt to convey all he felt in words alone. He had but one thing to say, to make it final, irrevocable, and so he did-

" _ **And by doom, ordain'd be this union."**_

It would be at this moment that Arien would gaze at Mairon, except that she had turned away, for fear of those treacherous tears. It would not do to allow him to see them. Briefly, she locked the essence of the moment in her very fëa- she never would forget a single detail.

A mighty song was heard, and tremendous storms rang out in the sky, followed by a muffled, stern whisper of " _Mânawenûz_!" and an Elder King who suddenly seemed very interested in the armrest of his throne.

It seemed everybody was forgetting something.

Mairon looked at Aulë and Yavanna, nodded subtly, and left the pedestal, leaving a somewhat surprised Arien behind.

"I believe I have not yet uttered that which I meant to utter, Náromôz. Ezelliniđil?"

Yavanna, at her beloved's cue, rose, and looked at Arien first, then Mairon. Her gaze at the former was one of kindness and pride, while the latter felt as always that he was being pierced from within, that his deepest core stood in plain view of her sight. Ending her deliberation, the Valië spoke.

"Mairon- ever have you been a child to me- my own son, I would perhaps have called you. Alongside Aulë, I was the most hurt when you chose to… leave… us. It seemed to me as if you tore a piece out of me, as if you took something from the mother I had thought myself to be. Ages have we spent in thought of when and how we must have failed you. When you returned, it roused my wrath- but due to the wonderful wife you have found, that part of me- of us- has been restored. You are not the same, dear child- you will never be- and yet look at yourself.

It takes greater will to overcome one's evil nature after one falls than to remain good until the end. For that, I say this- To Arien, we are forever indebted to you. To Mairon- we are proud of you. Never will we cease to be proud of you."

It seemed as if the breath was taken from Mairon's body. He fell to the ground, breathing harshly and heavily, as if it was a concept he was only just getting used to. Seeing his plight, Arien rushed to his side, but before she could lift him from the ground, he raised his hand, and somehow, with some store of terrible strength, managed to haul himself to his feet, and made his way to his former master's side.

"M-master Aulë… Y-you have not yet spoken your part." said he, catching his breath. Aulë would rather have wished that Mairon speak it, but the maia was clearly not in a position to do so. The Worldsmith never had a certain grandiloquence, a skill with words that his brothers and sisters possessed- and yet he would say it all the same.

Laying a great hand on Mairon's shoulder, he looked at Arien with kindness and affection in his twinkling, metallic eye.

"No doubt, my dear Arien… no doubt you have wondered why Mairon would disappear for months- perhaps years on end. You recall why he began to visit you less and less often after a time, do you not?

The truth, as I must tell you, is that he sought a… solution to your predicament. You have devoted yourself to your great duty, and yet you would wish to see your beloved at times, would you not? And poor Mairon, he has never been very comfortable in the skies, away from his beloved Arda…"

"Ah, be quick about it, Aulë, dear. We do not wish to keep her waiting, lest we suffer Námo's wrath."

"Ah, well… We spent years on end developing a certain… cycle. A… path, if you will. No longer will you need to infuse Anar with your own power- for from this day forth, it will have its own energy. I have seen to it, in what little time I had after you descended to ready yourself for this day. I have arranged it such that Laurelin's fruit will travel ever in its appointed path. I care deeply about my children… even if it means I have to create Law itself."

Suffice to say Arien could not believe her ears. She stared at Mairon, who had only just managed to gather himself- yet he was clever, and turned away before she blinded him yet again. She stared again at Aulë, pleading the Vala to continue.

The Smith looked at the Doomsman, who gave a covert nod, smiled and said-

" **By Námo's leave, I pass this doom. When Anar, fruit of Laurelin, commenceth her journey o'er the lands of Middle-earth, thou shalt bear it, Urušigas, as thou hast and as thou shalt until the end of time. When the time cometh for her to illumine the lands of Valinor, thou mayest land and be with thy beloved. Thus be half thy duty taken by Law for thy life and thy love."**

And now came the time for Mairon's plot. He had never forgotten, never forgiven that incident at the Halls of Mandos when the Age had begun. He had recalled the least humiliating response he could have conjured, and never had been allowed to forget by Eönwë, who seemed in league with Námo. Well, now, the world would see what response Arien could conjure when put in his place.

Before the Light of Arda could do anything, the once Dark Lord had taken three great strides and… _ah, the unthinkable…_ done-that-thing-she-had-done-all-those-years-ago.

In this endeavour too was he doomed to fail. Arien let him believe she would fall to the ground as he had before she struck.

 _Nay! This was not – this was never part of the plan! She was not supposed to return the kiss!_

 _Ai, Udûn! Ai, Eru! Ai Arda- why was everything plummeting? Why was the ground out of sight? Why was Eä spiralling into utter chaos and disorder… stopitstopitstopitstopit-aarrgh!_

He seemed to be falling, breathless, until something caught him smoothly and gracefully, it seemed.

His sense of smell was rudely awoken by the acrid fumes of smoke.

As he regained his sight, he wondered what Arien's apologetic cries of 'Sorry! We truly are Sorry!' were all about.

Ah, there was a tremendous pillar of flame that had engulfed them and ascended to the high heavens. How exactly had that come to pass, he wondered.

The Doomsman, as usual, had prepared a contingency.

" _ **Ullubôz!"**_

Just when the poor, shocked Maia had hit upon the truth, the pond gave a tremendous rumble. Many a tale told of the power of the rise of the Sea-king- it seemed none had done it justice, for that flood simply defied possibility.

For some reason, Arien disliked being drenched. She had no qualms about staying immersed in water, but hated water that served to drench in a second, leaving the victim dripping and drying. It was so very _annoying._

Ah, here was a perfect measure of protection- here was one wearing the most enormous cloak she had ever seen. Her course of action was obvious.

After the flames were doused, the sight that awaited the Valar made them thankful of their ability to maintain lordly dignity at all moments.

Mairon, who had been forcibly swivelled around to bear the entirety of the flood, which ruined his cloak _(not the sacred cloak!)_ had an expression of sheer Dark-lordish rage on his contorted face. A perfectly-dry Arien who was tucked securely in his unwitting arms looked comically sheepish.

Námo smiled. A long age it would be, indeed. He would undoubtedly be most entertained.

* * *

 **GLOSSARY**

 **Ai Eru, i L** **ú** **m** **ë** **Veryanw** **ë** **o s** **í** **si** **ë \- ****Oh Eru, the time of the wedding has come!**

 **Pityaháno-** **Little Brother**

 **Háno** **\- Brother**

 **Mâchananaškad/Máhanaxar-** **Doom-ring**

 **Aulendil (assumed)-** **Scion of Aulë's folk**

 **Isilcolindo-** **Bearer of Ithil**

 **Turmandë-** **Fate-wielder. (Forget about him, he is not really a character in this tale)**

 **Achûlêz-** **Aulë**

 **Ullubôz-** **Ulmo**

* * *

 **A/N: Agh… That ends it, finally. The Balrog woke, it seems. I cannot bear to think of what it wrote. Another two chapters and I can put this behind me. Sadly for you, dear readers, I shall be writing the next chapter, not the Balrog, so from hereon out, the fluff ceases and the Dagorath begins. Thank you for the reviews all the same.**


	5. Nu Telumë Mórilantëa

**Atalant** **ë**

 **Author's Note and Warning:** **If your taste for this tale has been sated with the happy ending established in the last chapter, read no further.**

 **It is my intent that this chapter and the next serve as a sort of Coda-section for the music I have sought to weave in Atalant** **ë** **, and the rating will therefore rise to 'T'- or in precise terms, to 'D', for Dagor Dagorath.**

 **The tale is complete without this entry and the next, and can very well stand alone, hence I shall not raise the overall rating, and this exists only so that I may have the satisfaction of recording the chronicle in its entirety.**

 **This, I warn you, is a dark chapter, very much so- one with themes and execution of torture and what I call 'metaphysical violence'. One may know this import if one is familiar with the lore of the Dagor Dagorath. And there are some- I espy one in particular- who will read it nonetheless, treat it as part of the tale as a whole, comment, perhaps, on its sorrow and come to slay me in terrible fury. I shall accept this demise nonetheless- for I write this tale now, not the Balrog.**

* * *

 **Epilogue 1: Nu Telum** **ë** **M** **ó** **rilant** **ëa**

" _The world is grey, the mountains old,_

 _the forge's fire is ashen-cold._

 _No harp is wrung, no hammer falls,_

 _The darkness dwells…"_

And there it ceased.

It was old. _He was old._ It was the time of ceasing, and thus all would cease to be, as had the tune that passed his mind, though nary a word escaped his lips.

The ancient dwarven hymn of Durin's awakening was one he found more fitting than any elven lament, for was it not the fate of the Khuzd that Arda met? Was it not their fall that Arda suffered?

Durin the Seventh and Last had been a Great King, the greatest since the days of the Deathless. He suffered, however, a curse- a Doom with weight greater, perhaps, than the weight of a Silmaril. The Dwarrows slowly fell to decline- never in wealth, but in posterity- and it was Durin's doom that he should fall the last of them, fading away as would an Elf in shadow- a sorrow that was never to be a dwarf's to bear, and one far greater, for he would leave the last.

No great battle awaited in which to fall in glorious death- nay, it was a silent, creeping demise the Khuzd were doomed to, the dispossessed of Eru.

Yet Mairon had now full faith in his Atar, and he knew of how they would rise again, their fëar aiding the ranks of his master- nay, his foster-atar _,_ the present-father, Aulë.

He had met with Durin once on an inconspicuous visit to Middle-earth. It was in the final days of his fading, when he walked the world as had the first Deathless one, drinking from the very wells his ancestor did, now no longer untasted and rippling with the memory of a thousand tongues.

The Dwarf-king had accepted his fate with the grace of a Maiarin lord, saying that he would not will it otherwise, for he did not wish any of his race to face that terrible sorrow in his stead. He was the only among them who could bear this shadow, his mind one with the wisdom of Seven and his immortal fëa bowed down and yet upright with the weight of Four ages.

There he stood, and he forgave Sauron, second Dark Lord of Arda his atrocities, for there was naught to remain by seeking inconceivable vengeance against one redeemed. The just pardon of a truly noble King, and despite the humbling connotations, Mairon had accepted.

It was said that he delved one last time to stoop and witness his visage in Mirrormere. Ever he walked without lordly helm, for his true crown was of sunken stars in those dark and windless waters- and the Valacirca rose once again in the sky to crown him, shining gems upon a silver thread as he cast his life from his aged fána of his own will, the time of his people ended.

And so Sauron had departed, and with the same haste he walked now, as the darkness crept slowly from the sky. It always did seem more… reluctant… to leave with each passing day.

The _Elenath_ of Varda- they seemed now far beyond their original size, but yet more distant, and their light barely reached the eye- but not, for Mairon knew they were in their appointed places- the fires within them had begun to cease their once-eternal blaze. Only those of the Valacirca remained as bright as they were, and but one other- for that was the Star of Eärendil, and the Silmaril would never be dimmed.

Anar, however, persisted. It remained yet the bright beacon of hope, and its bearer still the bastion of unyielding power she ever was- for Arien never seemed to age. She never grew wary. The only other who had not grown jaded thus was Vána, her mistress- perhaps Arien had received some of the gifts that were endowed to the ever-young. Mairon, however, suspected another reason, and that lay in the stubborn, unyielding will of his wife to never lose sight of the good in Arda.

As his beloved Arda died around him, she was his one blessing- amidst the roiling sea of sorrow that his thoughts were, the one anchor. It seemed she had imparted to him some of her everlasting flames, for Mairon was not now weighted, and did not indeed look aged as did many others- his own fires of deep amber, if they had lost in volume, had gained in heat and an ephemeral beauty of existence that came with deep wisdom and control.

The earth of hallowed Aman cracked beneath his feet, broken in its age by his haste. But one thought remained to him, and he would entertain naught else. With a silent deliberation, he marched to the far eastern shore, as the dawn came in all its glorious light to the shore. Twilight was left behind him, and the shadows crept ever onward towards the rest of Valinor- and he knew it to be the final day they would be blessed with the holy light of Laurelin. To him, however, another cause mattered.

He saw her, she to whom his redemption and his life after belonged, _she-who-was-his-and-none-else's._ She waited, as ever she did, precisely at the time appointed, holding in her radiant palm the reins of her chariot, awaiting the moment when Anar would come to crown this part of Araman, such that she may raise her vessel, as much part of her fëa as were the fires of the Sun itself, and take once again the golden fruit in her arms, guiding the beacon in all its splendour on its journey through the eastern lands- and so it would be nevermore.

He would ponder oft why she persisted- why ought the depraved cruelty of the _atani-_ the _men-_ of these days be rewarded thus by the chance to gaze upon she who was beyond all beauty? Why ought they be reserved a portion of her grace and might? How dare they turn thus from Atar's favour, how dare they _exist_ while she yet shone upon their shadowed _fëar…_

Mairon would silence these thoughts with a shudder. He had once wrapped himself in black thought, thought aimed at _rule._ He had aimed to rule Middle-earth, and he knew that such darkness would have struck at it sooner if he yet remained, and such slight would be paid to her tenfold.

This time was inevitable. Arda was dying, and so must the Atani serve as the catalyst to the end- for only by the gift of Eru could true _change_ occur, and this had. He had learned, with not inconsiderable due to the teachings of Námo Mandos, that this would all form part of Atar's design.

And thus he would never turn, never question. _Not even the darkness that was to come._ He _knew_ it would have to be her- she was too great, too bright a fire to be left. Too salubrious an elixir for Arda to pass. He knew she was the only one to survive the ordeal that was to come- the only one to shoulder the weight of the terrible destiny.

He knew he could not stand by her side as she had by his- the skies, alas, never were his domain, and he cared for them little when his feet could caress the ground of his beloved Arda, even if she were aged beyond healing.

He advanced, therefore, raging thought silenced, and he but had one objective in mind. When he neared and the ground shook at being touched by the very presence of two beings of such power, that of each matchless except for that of the other, she turned, and greeted him with that same, subtle, soft smile he had come to cherish more than he ever had his Ring, his vaunted power or the very stars themselves- and in what could be termed as a swoop had incarnated his form beside her and embraced her as if she meant the world to him- for that she did.

Flames rose from Arda's bowels, fissures and cracks formed as they ever did when the two met in embrace- and Mairon held Arien longer this time than ever he had, such that the flames rose in their glory once again, and ascended to the high heavens as they had but once before when they were wed.

Arien felt the heat of the sole flaming tear that fell from his eye, and wiped it away with a thrust of her will, cupping the chin of her beloved and bidding him thus to behold her eyes, and they shone as ever with that ancient flame, a testament to undying hope.

Mairon lowered his forehead, then, dark hair falling in a curtain to obscure his eyes which glowed amber, and stepped away as a shadow- but slowly, reluctantly. Every day of this last age of Arda, he had come to this very place whenever it had been possible, and to Arien's delight would embrace her thus without a word said, and ever would she part with a smile on her face, unquenchable by any shadow.

This day she smiled with a radiance he had thought impossible, and in that gesture he was torn between smiling himself at the present or unleashing a deluge of tears in light of the future, for he had now left a part of his fëa to her- knowing what was to come when she did not.

With the iron will befitting not only the finest smith of Aulë but also the terrible strength of a Dark Lord, he retreated, ever silent, eyes never drooping, watching her rise to where Anar was as she cradled it in her embrace… _for what would be the final time._

It was not until she was long gone that his will crumbled and his knees buckled. His arms fell to the ground as if he forgot the use of them, and the bitter furrows of barren Araman bit into his palms as they struck it harshly.

Amber eyes turned to gold as tears fell, tears of an absolute and terrible certainty, that he would never see her again as she was. He had never before cried thus, for he would sooner gouge out his own eyes and never let the scars heal- but for this once, he could not help it.

The winds rose and the earth gave in to yet greater cracks as a presence came forth, fëa of the tightest wavelength and unseen, for it was manifest in the ultraviolet spectrum. A low yet reverberating thrum of song was heard, with echoes of the past, present and future- and the music swell and set his heart awash, for the being had taken him in its embrace.

Lord Námo stood silently over the weeping figure of Mairon, shoulders now hunched and knees slightly bent with the weight of all the dooms of the world. His hair, once black as the void, had lost its hue and strength in part, but not its beauty, for though it was now thin, wispy and silvered in strand after strand, he still retained the grandeur he ever had.

The last and greatest of all his prophecies had come to pass, and he stood now bent with the weight of the pain and suffering the entirety of the world _would_ feel, but had not felt yet- in this, he was alone among the Valar, for he knew the entirety of what was to come and had borne it in all its weight.

Each of the Valar save Vána were now wearied, but the ages had taken a greater toll on him than most, for he felt the pain of the fëar of all as the atani turned slowly from Elessar's nobility. They had risen beyond what any would perceive their station, but the means shocked all- all but him, for he had known from the very beginning.

His shoulders were weighted and his strength waning, Valarin might given to every soul on Arda whether good or evil- for no fëa deserved the torture that would come with the destruction of the laws of nature, the breaking of the Door of Night.

Such was his duty and his Doom- to take the pain of others unto himself and to bear the weight of every conscience- and weighted thus though he was, Námo Mandos was truly mighty- for now, as he saw a fëa grieving before him with emotion of such weight than even Valar would be hard-pressed to feel- and he gave, yet again, of his own, precious strength, cocooning Mairon in his power and assuaging the grief.

He had told him all, of course- the very previous day. Atar had told him in what could only be called the most straightforward manner that he wished his daughter healed after the ordeal she was bound to suffer, but suffer it she must for _change_ was of the essence ere all was ended.

And so Mairon was forbidden from telling her, and tell her he did not, for Námo sensed within the grief an inch of that unquenchable pride, that loud proclamation that what ha dbeen asked of him had been done, no matter the cost to him.

" _ **Rise, Mairon. Rise from the depths of your thought- for the darkness that is to come is but a precursor, a vanguard to the light that shall follow."**_

The flaming Maia looked up, and the tears ceased- and Námo beheld that his eyes had turned a hue of gold, a colour he never had seen before.

" _I knew. I knew what had to be done. One wonders- one wonders if what is to come is truly necessary… If the… death of Arda is necessary…"_

Námo took the maia's hands in his own- now wrinkled and veined by tending to fëar that were further and further beyond redemption- and infused him with that great strength only he could claim to possess.

" **In a way, Mairon, I myself am plagued… I believe it is long enough that I have let pass, for I must confess something to you- but you know it well, do you not? I suffer from certainty. Absolute, relentless certainty. It is a cruel weight, and I presumed it my doom to never rise from it- but then I beheld you.**

 **I beheld you throwing off the shackles of your own doom, growing ever more powerful than you could have hoped to become had you never fallen. I beheld you rising and making your doom your own, of uniting light and darkness, and achieving understanding as none have. For that, Mairon, I envy you- yet that has given me strength, as well as knowledge. Knowledge that I can rise beyond my doom as you have, and that such weight will be cast off if I have the strength to bear it. And so I do, Mairon. I never have lost hope- but you, dear Maia, you give me courage."**

Mairon's eyes met his, and they were changed again- gone was the sorrowful gold and returned was the fiery amber. Here was the maia of fierce pride and power, here was he no longer struck by doubt of whether he deserved Arien's hand, for he _knew he did._

"Never again will I be found wanting. Never will I bow again to He who arises in Might- to him and all his spawn, my scorn shall be made manifest in my actions, for I have risen beyond all he could hope to offer me. You have my gratitude, Lord Námo- indeed, my mind is yours to hold against debt- but I must rise, rise as you bade, and I shall not falter. I know what I must do."

The Vala of Doom lowered his gaze a moment, speaking in the gentlest whisper.

" **That hour is not yet come. If you wish, you may wait in the cradle of my power and let me do my duty. You may have my strength and my will, and I shall purge all doubt- perhaps I shall tell you a story or so while we wait, tales of the elder days of which you are so fond…"**

He shook his head, solemnly and firmly. He had drawn upon enough of the Doomsman's strength- for he possessed no small degree of his own. In that he was unlike the other maiar- for he did not crave comfort, and never called upon a Vala for aid. Besides, he never was one to wait.

"The hour grows late, Lord Námo. I have stood against all Arda's peoples and the weight of a thousand dooms, and so shall I stand alone now. I thank you for your kindness, though I do not seek assurance, for I have that in myself. My heart grows heavy- Eönwë must be told, and all… all must be made ready ere I set forth for Middle-earth."

The Vala smiled- a proud smile, for Mairon yet stood in spite of all that would oppose him. He never asked the maia if he was sure, for he knew he was.

" _ **Then this final duty I entrust to you, Mairon Aulendil. Do what must be done."**_

* * *

" _Thus shall fall all who dare defy_

 _My will- under shade of ruinous sky."_

The echoes of the thunderous voice, its cadence and timbre the epitome of a beauty both majestic and terrible, shook the broken, barren mountains and crumbled their peaks, as the skies above him were forever benighted.

 _It was done, then._

No light would serve to illumine his days or the days of any other while Arda yet persisted, and thus it was with a heavy yet steeled heart that Mairon strode onward.

The shadows of Melkor had made the skies their domain, and none far from the light of the Valar could see- none save Mairon, who had never truly forsaken the darkness.

He was now redeemed, though not at all a paragon of light- that was never possible, nor was it the intent. Mairon still knew the shadows, his old, treacherous friends, and he had the will to command them- and he bade them not cloud his vision. The spirits of darkness departed, then, and his way was clear.

Eönwë, bless him, had possessed the faith and trust in his friend necessary to ferry him over to the north, of Middle-earth with his winged fána that flew swifter than the winds, relying on only the directions Mairon gave him. He had flown far enough to deliver him to what remained of the Crissaegrim until he was forced to return. Even the beacon that was Manwë's fëa could be lost among the writhing, swirling darkness that now held Arda, and it was of the essence that he returned to it ere he lost its track.

He was alone, then, and he strode ever onward, paying no heed to his beloved Arda dying around him- cracked and dried though she was, her mountainous crown marred and her waters now vapour, he cared not, for her time had come. Such was not true of the other he loved, perhaps even more at that- yet he could not linger.

His flaming fëa spread forth its tendrils and his senses expanded to form a view of the entirety of the vast environment around him- Námo had told him in exactitude where she would fall, and his orderly mind that ever saw all in precise coordinates knew the place perfectly, but in all likelihood, it was possible that she had been moved.

 _Arien. Arien. Arien._

A steady thrum of music came forth from him, as he repeated that one word, that one name. _Arien. Urušigas._

 _Arien. Arien. Arien… Arien? ARIEN!_

His breath caught, and his feet halted, mouth contorted in the throes of the scream that had left his lips.

 _He had felt her, he knew it!_

A silent caress of white-hot flame against his fëa- but a spark, weak and dimmed, but no less beautiful- and it had then been rudely swept away.

He knew her- even if his cursed former master had mangled her and destroyed her in every way possible, fána or fëa, she would still never… _back away._ He knew her to possess that indomitable strength, for that was her Father's gift unto her.

 _Someone else, then._

 _Someone else had his Arien._

 _Said someone had summoned their own doom, a doom of being ripped apart piece by piece until naught remained of them but a bloody smear on the ground and metaphysical ash on the winds._

He sprinted, full pelt, feeling for the shadows, advancing to where they reigned the strongest. He knew he would find her there. The shadows, of course, welcomed him into their embrace as if he were their oldest friend, but he remained ever weary of treachery.

 _Treachery._

Why, suddenly, did such thoughts assail him? He found himself afraid, all of a sudden, of treachery- not of being tricked, for the shadows had attempted that already and he had mastered their illusions with his will- it was, rather, the _concept of treachery._

He mulled that word in his mind, breaking it apart as one would a nut to find meaning within, and it was that hidden _meaning,_ an intrinsic meaning that only an Ainu may know, that set itself awash over his senses then.

There was another fëa, no doubt about it- a fëa that resonated with the word _'treachery'_ to him, and it belonged to one who attempted actively to hide his presence.

He ran on, his boots pierced in five places, his hands and shoulders torn by stray edges and sharp rock faces- trifles for which he cared naught- and only when he found the place did he know what lurked behind his fears.

 _Bloody Udûn._

 _Of all those who could have found her, it but_ _ **had**_ _to be him._

He gritted his teeth, fists curling in rage, a wreath of flames rising to crown him in his wrath.

 _It was the nasty Curumo-turncoat._

* * *

 ** _Earlier_**

 _Pain._

It was all she felt, _pain._

For hours, her song of power had clashed against that of the Dark Lord, locked in a great battle of will that twisted the skies and rent the lands asunder. Countless kingdoms of men were destroyed- _and then he had won._

She had known it- _there was no other alternative._

She was fated to lose, and it was Morgoth who would win. This was doom.

She rent within his fëa a thousand scars and burnt him with a thousand wounds, but he would ever rise stronger- it seemed he somehow drew _strength_ from the pain- and Morgoth had fought now with a cold fury and a calculated precision, not with a malicious will to bring only wrath and ruin.

She had shivered helplessly as _cold_ had taken her, as the Dark Vala had reached within her heart and crushed her fires within his grip of cold iron- but that was not the end of it.

She did not fear him, but that moment she had seen that _look_ in his eyes- only then was she truly terrified.

She had never feared pain nor ruin nor losing her power- but upon witnessing the Dark Lord's unspeakably lascivious intent, her fëa had but resonated with one word- _NO!_

With the last of her power, a part she had reserved to heal her broken fëa after this ordeal was ended, she had escaped his grip and cast herself to Middle-earth, and Morgoth had finally felt rage.

So it was, then, that he had rained shadows upon her in revenge, casting her to the mountains.

Unbeknownst to her, he had also communicated the location of where she had fallen to a… recently-acquired servant.

She had fallen upon the side of a mountain, and was sure every bone of her body had been broken. The jagged lines of the rock- indeed, it was much like sharpened iron- had cut lines along her back, and she lay spent, swathed in her own red-gold blood.

The ordeal had drained her strength, and her eyes burned, but there were no tears to come, for her eyes were as dry as were the rivers in these dark days.

For what seemed an eternity, she lay there, a thousand knives of the frostiest chill seeming to bite into her skin now robbed of its flames. She lacked the strength to make any exclamation of pain, let alone ask for help.

She was sure a great hole had been ripped into her fëa, and the unspeakable cold assailed her again. Even then, she did not lose hope- not until she saw those glinting black eyes.

The face that accompanied it was a shock to behold- with a great beard that flowed to the waist, the hair once a resplendent white but now dirty and matted. The cracked lips were bent in an utterly despicable smile, which widened to show hideous yellow teeth, poisoned thus by speaking the dark words of the enemy.

 _Not this. Atar, please, not this!_

The bitter irony stung like a whip- that she, she who had always been so invincible, so mighty and so utterly unconquerable- she who had but before this torment scorned the root of all Evil in Arda itself- that she should fall to _this_ maia of all was a thought that made her weep inwardly.

 _Atar showed mercy. Atar was merciful._

Not this- this was not mercy. This was the cruellest fate imaginable- to be drained of all power by a traitor. She knew Curumo would do it _slowly,_ if only to spite her former power. If he knew of Mairon, then it would be no doubt a thousand times worse- but she would endure that fate, if it meant Mairon would come.

She could do naught but wait, however.

As the former Istar neared with step after deliberate step, fingers shaking with glee, she reached through the bond she shared with Mairon, and drew strength from him- strength enough to make a last, desperate call to the only one who could deliver her from this fate.

' _MAIRON!'_

* * *

 **GLOSSARY**

 **Nu Telum** **ë** **M** **ó** **rilant** **ëa-** **Under Benighted Skies**

 **Khuzd/Khaz** **â** **d: Dwarves**

 **D** **warrows :** **Dwarf males**

 **Elenath:** **Stars**

* * *

 **Unwanted, Unneeded, Unnecessary, Unmindful and Undulating Author's Note:**

This tale might lengthen to two more chapters, as I have rather conveniently wasted time writing sorrowful litanies of the dying world. Melkor, as I have found, is rather good at stealing the show as well- hence the lengthened chapters.

Now, put down the pitchforks, I would never let this highly exaggerated Saruman drain Arien of her strength (for I very much wish to live my life without the mortal fear of a wrathful former Dark Lord). I am sorry for the cliffhanger, and shall thus promise that the next chapter will serve to be rather cathartic.

As for Melkor's nasty intent, that is what happened, regrettably, in the previous version of the legendarium (I am glad Tolkien put it out), but it is apparent that Melkor would never really forget that intent, and would attempt to act on it if he were to be given a reason to not fear Arien anymore. It gave me a convenient reason to switch the roles of Mairon and Arien, as it would hand Mairon a reason to solidify his own worth in his mind by rescuing her as she rescued him. It was that, and also that I enjoy writing about an enraged and thoroughly destructive Sauron, as we shall witness shortly.

Apologies for the delay, but there was the matter of me nearly breathing my last. I hope to have the next chapter out soon, as soon as I have updated another story to ensure this one does not appear at the top.


End file.
